


malediction of faith

by Acacius



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Young Geralt, but also lots of dry wit bc these two are arrogant reckless youths, this dynamic is honestly everything to me, who's ready for detailed angst???, young Regis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-14 09:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14133693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acacius/pseuds/Acacius
Summary: AU | Newly minted witcher Geralt of Rivia embarks upon a journey to kill a higher vampire who has been terrorizing village after village. Spared within an inch of his life by the same vampire he’d been tasked to kill, Geralt begins to question the black-and-white reality of monster hunting. The vampire, Regis, also begins a similar crisis of faith underneath the tempting haze of bloodlust.





	1. A Question of Morality

**Author's Note:**

> instead of actually studying for my quantitative analytical chemistry quiz, my traitorous brain decided it'd be a perfect time to write fic. hope you guys enjoy this prologue, regardless ^^;

It was easy enough to track this particular vampire. In fact, Geralt was almost sure that his initial ruling of the monster as a higher vampire to be erroneous; he’d given the beast too much credit. Nothing screamed sophisticated in the careless way that the vampire had discarded its meals. There was no sadism, no propping of human heads on pikes or elaborate blood trails to create some macabre portrait; there was only blood and death and the rotting stench of fear. 

Higher vampires liked to play with their food, put on the mask of a respectable member of human society during the day only to release their true voracity at night. This vampire merely had a taste for blood and violence. Raw aggression and a near obsession with lifeblood—regardless of gender or age—marked this killer. The vampire did not discriminate between victims; anyone who crossed its path was a potential meal—nothing more and nothing less. 

And that was why it was so laughably easy for the young witcher to force a meeting. 

He nicked a vein and waited in an abandoned hut on the outskirts of the town, sure that the smell of blood, however minute, would bring the monster roaring to his door. The naivety and rashness of being a newly minted witcher, combined with a lack of experience, culminated to the man’s suicidal decision to lure out the beast. No witcher would ever approach a possible vampire (higher or otherwise) encounter without the proper tools. But all Geralt had done was take a swig from a vial of black blood and stretch out on the wooden floor, gaze turned to the twinkling stars he could see, the ones not eclipsed by thatches of straw in the dilapidated shambles of the roof. 

His meager supply of candles lit the corners of the hut, casting harsh shadows against the broken window-frame, unlike the black fog that poured in suddenly from the gap in the door. Before Geralt could even unsheathe his sword, the vampire became corporeal, shifting into the visage of a young man with a pronounced widow’s peak, unruly raven hair framing a crooked nose. He had a nightwraith-pale complexion, dark eyes the color of coal, garments regal and severe. Talon-like claws pushed the witcher against the wall, caging him, as the vampire’s grip became iron, breaths rolling out like steam against his face. 

“Humor me, dear witcher, as to why you would be so foolish as to set a trap using your own blood,” the vampire paused, breathing deeply into the side of Geralt’s neck, “and why you would go and spoil yourself with black blood? I’ve always wanted to taste witcher blood, but now I must wait for the potion to wear off. What a shame.” 

Fury boiled inside Geralt and with nothing to lose, now trapped in the beast’s clutches, he sent his knee towards the vampire’s groin. Hard. Momentarily stunned by the sudden jolt of pain, the beast’s grip slackened, allowing the witcher to push with all his strength to send him flying towards the door. 

The vampire reverted to fog and slipped through the logs that acted as the decaying structure of the cabin, reappearing beside the witcher with a chuckle. 

“Cocky, aren’t we? Perhaps I won’t kill you just yet. What is your name, witcher?” 

“None of your fucking business,” Geralt retorted, gripping the hilt of his silver sword and slicing through the air in a downward arc. 

The vampire gave a sigh, sidestepping just out of reach of the weapon. He held his hands up in mock surrender, if only to annoy the witcher further. “Now, now, I asked you a simple question. Here, I’ll be the better person. My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, but I understand that you humans have pitiful memory so you may address me as Regis.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt asked, anger mixing with exasperation. “I didn’t know vampires were this loud.” He swung the sword again, except this time Regis stopped the blade with a single ungloved hand, smoke billowing from where his flesh touched silver. If the pain bothered him, he did not show it. 

“Oh, we’re plenty talkative. A side effect of immortality, I imagine. When one can live forever what is the point in conserving words? I have all the time in the world, unlike you, nameless witcher, who will die a bloody, forgetful death. No one to mourn you. No one to even bury your body. You could die here in this abandoned hut and no one would come looking for you. That is the pitiful fate of a witcher, abandoned by humans and gods.” Regis grabbed the witcher by the collar of his armor and threw him, slamming the man into the wall. It was only by a sheer miracle that the entire cabin didn’t collapse from the force, logs rattling as bits of roof fell down upon the witcher.

Rolling onto his side with a groan, Geralt spit out blood, grimacing. He took in a deep breath, fingers nimbly reaching towards the potion pouch at his side. “You’re one to talk. All you do is eat and kill. Your fancy words mean nothing. You’re a mistake, something that should have never come into this world. No amount of warm blood is ever going to make you feel anything at all because you are a monster. You could drink an entire ocean of blood and you’d still be empty inside.” 

For the first time, Regis’ fangs were visible as he spoke, nostrils flaring. “I have a perfectly normal range of emotions—I just have none to spare on a species whose lifespan is but a blink of an eye."

Geralt laughed loudly. “Sure you do, vampire. You’re sounding pretty defensive. Why do the words from a lowly human bother you so much, then?” Using the momentary distraction, Geralt was able to chug a superior swallow and fetch his fallen sword in a single roll. Sensing an opening, he swung the sword towards Regis and sliced through the hem of his shirt, drawing blood.

Regis frowned and stepped back, clutching at his shoulder. “You insolent witcher!” He lunged for the man, tackling him down. Geralt’s grip on his sword loosened at the point of impact, causing the weapon to slide across the floor. 

“Damn it,” the witcher muttered, pushing palms-up against the vampire. Regis hissed in return, baring his teeth. His mouth ghosted across Geralt’s neck, hot puffs of breath sending shivers down his spine. 

“I’m going to enjoy killing you, witcher.”

Geralt’s mind raced, flashes of those he loved and cared about clouding his vision. He didn’t want to die; not here, not being bled dry by a higher vampire with a penchant for pedagogy. He’d been on the Path alone for just about a handful of years. Vesemir would be so disappointed in him, in how the school’s greatest pupil had succumbed to the maw of a monster so easily. 

Still, even as young an inexperienced as he was, Geralt knew that he had met his match. But he wouldn’t die without having the last word, stubbornness alight in his amber eyes. “You can’t even fight your own nature, can you? Do what you were born to do, then. I can’t even hate you for it; it’s like hating a wolf for being a wolf. It’s something it can’t control.” 

And then the witcher closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling of fangs in his throat. He waited to feel the life drain out of him, hear his traitorously strong, mutated heart slowing, ebbing in rhythm until only silence would make a home in his rib cage. 

Instead, he felt the pressure against him slacken, the once solid body, which had felt as heavy as brick, roll off him. Geralt didn’t dare to move, sure that this had to be some elaborate trick by the higher vampire. He didn’t want to be so foolish as to hope that Regis had spared him for some indiscernible reason. 

“Listen well. What is your name, witcher?” Regis asked, lying beside Geralt, gaze turned to the pinholes of light coming in from the broken roof. He had his hands clasped at his chest, expression distant. If the witcher knew any better, he’d say the vampire had become morose—reflective, even. 

“Geralt of Rivia.” 

“Listen, Geralt, if you try to find me again, I will kill you. If you are unfortunate enough to cross my path while I am hunting, I will kill you. If I so much as smell your scent in the air, I will kill you. Even vampires can show mercy so do not be so sure that my character is limited to murder only. Goodbye.” 

And like that, the vampire was gone in a wave of smoke, disappearing into the night. 

Geralt breathed out a sigh of relief, wiping sweat from his brow. He’d gotten damn lucky tonight. With nothing to show from his meeting with a higher vampire except a collection of shallow cuts, bruises, and a dull pain in his limbs from being thrown around like a ragdoll, the witcher rose to his feet, intent on grabbing a room at the nearest inn and a tankard of whatever alcohol was on tap. 

It was only when he crawled into the dirty cot above the inn that he realized what had somehow fallen into his potion pouch: a handwritten note. Elegant script revealed a recipe for brewing mandrake, complete with proper proportions of ingredients and possible additions to the drink. 

A stomachache slithered into the man's gut. He'd not been that lucky, after all. Regis was sure to come and fetch his recipe--amongst other things.


	2. A Shift in Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bad summary: regis and geralt talk. a lot. and drink wine. also, mention(s)/description of child abuse. nothing too graphic, but i wanted to put a warning, regardless.

Geralt’s life is almost back to some semblance of normalcy, almost as if the night with the vampire known as Regis had only been a potion-fueled nightmare, when one morning, he woke to the sound of someone knocking frantically at his door. 

“Master Witcher? Master Witcher? Please, you must help me! I beg of you!” The unfamiliar women’s voice rose with every word, punctuated by a string of sobs. 

Bleary-eyed, Geralt shuffled around the room for his clothes, just managing to slip on his tunic before the woman came barreling in. 

“I’m sorry sir, but I must speak with you now. It is of the utmost urgency!” 

Geralt sighed. “Fine. What’s wrong?” 

At his probing, the woman looked as if she were going to simply dissolve into tears. She managed a pitiful sniffle, wiping sourly at her nose. Geralt was impressed when she regained a sliver of her composure, wringing the cloth in her hands. “Oh, it’s just horrible! A monster has stolen my child. My sweet, sweet Adriel… one moment, he was playing out in the wheat fields and in the next moment, a supernatural fog had surrounded him. A beast of some kind came out of the fog and snatched him right up! It was so horrid—as he was whisked away, the monster had the gall to tell me that he’d only be borrowing the child and that I’d be reunited as soon as I told the local witcher. It’s been a full day already and I worry that my son is dead!” 

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “This sounds like the same beast that’s been preying on neighboring villages. He’s dangerous.” 

The woman bowed her head. “I have no crowns to give, but I swear I will find a way to repay you. Please, Adriel’s all I have; I cannot bear to lose him. Without him, I have no one!” 

“I’ll do what I can.” He said, rubbing at his face. It was going to be an excruciatingly long day. 

…

The vampire did not bother to hide his scent. From the wheat field, it was easy to follow the trail that Regis had left. Along the way, a flock of ravens left the brush, flying in the direction of an old manor. 

When Geralt made it up the stone steps to the front of the home, the door swung open, revealing the familiar dark-haired man.  


“Where’s the kid? You’ve probably already killed him, haven’t you?” Geralt accused, stepping past the vampire, ignoring the foyer with its macabre collection of jars and skeletons in favor of searching for any sign of life. 

Regis’ expression was one of disdain, lips pressed together in a stern frown. “I am many things, witcher, but I am no liar. See, the child is unharmed.” As if silently summoned, Geralt watched as the boy descended the stairs, a tiny wooden horse clenched in his fists. He shyly approached the pair, darting behind the vampire when his gaze caught the unnatural cat-like eyes of the witcher. He grabbed at Regis’ coat, burrowing his face against the man’s leg. 

This roused a chuckle from Regis, fingers briefly turning to the boy’s scalp, smoothing down any errant curls with a wave of his hand. “Oh Adriel, there is nothing to fear. He may look scary, but trust me, I am much stronger than him.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yes, of course. Now be a dear and return to your room, please. I’ll come fetch you after I’ve had a chat with the witcher.” 

The boy nodded sagely, retreating back up the stairs. At the top of the staircase, he turned back, rubbing the wooden horse anxiously between his fingers. “D-don’t hurt Mister Regis, please! He’s very, very nice!” Adriel said before opening the door, giving the vampire one more toothy grin as the door shut behind him. 

All at once, Regis’ entire countenance shifted. The crinkles near his eyes disappeared, his once tight-lipped grin parted to reveal fangs, and the very energy of the room changed. Gone was the doting babysitter, replaced by a creature that could just as easily pluck out the child’s eyes instead of tucking him into bed. 

“Now that you’ve seen that the boy is perfectly fine, would you be so kind as to return to me my mandrake recipe?” 

It took the witcher a few good moments to respond. Nothing about the situation made any sense. Regis killed people. Murdered infants. Drank the blood of priests and saints and everyone in between. The kindness, feigned or somehow rationalized, did not add up. What did the vampire have to gain in being kind to the child? 

“I don’t understand… what are you planning? Is the child under some sort of spell—“

“Nothing of the sort. I am not all fangs and claws.” He gave a wave of his hand. “Like I said, vampires aren’t brutes by nature. Humans just have a monopoly on habits that disturb us the most.” 

The comment was enough to make Geralt snort. “Yeah, I guess we do. Gods forbid we live comfortably in villages ripe for pillaging.” 

“I do not pillage—“ 

“Really? Tell that to the families you’ve torn apart. The children you’ve made orphans. The soldiers who survived the war only to be bled out by you.” 

Regis grew quiet. It was not unlike the time when they both laid on the floor of the cabin, looking up at the stars through the shambles of the dilapidated roof. And like before, the pensive—almost sorrowful--expression disappeared with a crack of his shoulders. “Hmm, have you ever wanted children, Geralt?” 

“Stop trying to change the subject.” 

Regis ignored him. “I did. Do, I guess. But as cruel as this world is for humans, it is equally cruel for vampires.” He turned his back to the witcher to rummage through a nearby crate. He procured an unmarked bottle. “Wine does not soothe my palette like blood does, but I’d hate to offend you. Come, let’s share a bottle.” 

“You really never stop talking…” Geralt muttered, reluctantly following after the vampire. He was led from the drawing room to the dining hall, a surprisingly small and intimate room despite the size of the overall estate. In the center of the space was a mahogany table fit for six people, adorned with silver tableware and a collection of sunflowers in a vase. Overall, it was quite normal. Human even. Nothing about it hinted at a man who murdered people every night, but then again, no intelligent killer would ever let their home be so unbecoming. 

Taking a seat across from the vampire, Geralt eyed the red liquid as it was poured into a wine glass. Though he could not smell any blood in the air, he still had his doubts. Regis sighed. “It’s wine. From a vineyard. I don’t store blood; I prefer it fresh and from the source.” 

“You are this close to getting punched.” 

Regis grinned, showing off his fangs. “Oh, really? That’s rather rude of you to say. You’ve wounded me, Geralt.” 

“Shut up.” Geralt quipped back, taking a long sip of wine. Talking to the vampire was giving him a headache. 

“Now, back to the topic at hand. I want my recipe back. I’ve asked politely twice now and yet,” he held out his hands, “I have nothing. I will not ask a third time.” 

“And you haven’t convinced me that the kid isn’t under any sort of spell or influence. You’ll get your mandrake hooch recipe when I know what’s really going on with that boy.” 

Regis drummed his fingers against the table before leaning back, coal eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, I have no way to prove my innocence. All I can give is my word. And an anecdote, if you’re willing to listen.” 

“I don’t think I have much of a choice.” 

“Fair enough. That child—Adriel—is being abused by his mother. Not in any physical manner; he has no scars or bruises to show, but psychologically, it is quite obvious.” 

Geralt folded his arms. “What do you know about the human psyche? I thought us lower beings were not worth your time.” 

“I have many intellectual pursuits—some born of necessity, others out of boredom. Besides brewing and potion-making, I have an… academic interest in humans. In what makes you different from other sentient beings. This is quite common among vampires, though most observe humans via rigorous scientific testing. I grow bored easily nowadays, so I perform simple field observations since they take less time and require only small sample sizes.” 

“Get to the point, Regis.” 

“The point is, impatient witcher, that I’ve been observing the family for weeks now. It is just Adriel and his mother. His mother works as an innkeep. She sleeps during the day, gets up around late afternoon to get ready for work, and leaves Adriel to his own devices. She’s a functioning alcoholic, prone to flits of rage or weeping depending on the type of alcohol she’s ingested. When she isn’t at work, she is verbally and psychologically abusive to young Adriel. She has never once told the boy that she loved him, only that he is a burden and that she wished he’d never been born. She gives him just enough food and water to keep him well and hopes to send him off to work as a guardsman when he comes of age. As you know, becoming a guardsman allots the family a substantial amount of coin as compensation. And if she is lucky, he will die heroically in battle and she will receive even more coin. He is nothing to her but a future promise of wealth.” 

Geralt remained silent some time afterwards, absorbing the information. He hated that everything Regis said made sense. He smelled alcohol on the mother when she was in his room, but he thought it was coming from the bar underneath them. She was in hysterics, sobbing her eyes out at the witcher’s feet, but he felt that something was off. No mother would wait an entire day’s time to contact someone to help find her child. 

“…I hate to admit it, but I believe you. So is that why you’re so nice to the kid? Because he’s had a rough life?” 

“You could say that. But I also grew accustomed to the child over the course of my observations. He’s a bright boy. He’s literate—a miracle since he has no formal schooling. He obviously taught himself how to read since there are no other adults in his life. I think his future, if cultivated properly, could be prosperous. Perhaps something in politics or academia.” 

“It almost sounds like you want to raise him.” 

“I would, if it were possible. No, I’ve found him a proper home with a retired professor. He recently lost his twenty-three year old daughter to the plague. He’s been praying to the gods as of late to bring another child into his life.” 

Geralt laughed. “And so a vampire answers. How fitting.” 

“Indeed,” Regis paused, taking a sip from his wine glass, “you never did answer my question. Do you want children, Geralt?” 

“You don’t give up, do you? Fine. Yeah, I would like to have a child someday. Someone I could pass my witcher knowledge down to, teach to use a sword and bow, race each other on horses, explore the countryside with. But witchers are infertile. And no witcher has died asleep in his bed. So I don’t think about the future much—having something like a home and family is a foreign concept. Probably as foreign a concept to you as abstaining from blood.” Geralt took another swig of wine, finishing up what amounted to his third glass. He hoped the vampire couldn’t see the brief cracks in his façade, of the sorrow that threatened to reveal itself in the subtle glossiness of his eyes. 

Regis nodded, pouring Geralt another glass. “We are quite alike, you and I. Family sounds like something made for other people. I am not easily tied down. The fiercely independent sort, which I’m sure you’ve guessed. This world we younger vampires have been born into, the one we are merely sojourners in, is not kind. It breeds fierceness and mistrust. Even among my own people, though I am popular, I cannot say I have any close friends. Vampires know of me, but that is all. I guess that is why you’re still alive. Perhaps I’ll find more in common with a witcher.” 

Before Geralt could respond, a dense wave of fog slipped in from a nearby window, materializing into a middle-aged man with light brown hair. 

“Emiel, why is there a human at your table?” He paused, sniffing the air. “Wait, there are two humans here? And this one is a witcher!” 

Geralt was up in seconds, brandishing his silver sword. "Keep talking like I'm livestock and I'll slice your head clean off your neck." 

The vampire chuckled hard enough that he had to wipe a few tears from his eyes. “How cute, this human actually thinks he can take on two higher vampires. Come now, Emiel, let us have him together.” 

Regis slowly rose from his chair, lips pulled into a thin frown. “Ezehiel, you know I do not like surprises. You’ve ruined everything; I was planning to gain this witcher’s trust and then drain him dry. Leave, while I’m still forgiving. Find your own witcher to drink from, this one’s mine and mine alone.” 

“Come now, friend. You’ve never been this possessive of your meals. What makes this witcher so special that you cannot share a few drops?” 

Without allowing Regis to respond, Ezehiel was upon Geralt, fangs digging into his neck. The witcher froze, unable to pry himself out of the vampire’s grip. He felt the room begin to sway and with his final moments of consciousness, he saw Regis’ face morph into something more bat-like, fangs extended as he approached him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay first off, thank u so so much for all the kind words and kudos!! the witcher fandom is one of the nicest fandoms i've been in and gosh, it's just so lovely to receive this much attention on something i started out of procrastination lol. i'll be responding to comments asap!! but for now, just know that you all have my undying love bc comments on fics are my lifeblood. unrelated to this, i hope y'all don't mind that i've made regis a bit more morally grey than i originally intended; he doesn't hate humans and is fond of some in the way people are fond of animals at zoos (from a distance w/ a big ol' slab of glass separating u). young regis is quite complex and throwing young geralt some hella weird signals, bless his heart..... 
> 
> also p.s. ezehiel isn't an oc; he's actually featured in the witcher 3... bonus points to anyone who can tell me where he's mentioned in the game ;)
> 
> and p.s.s. this is a link to the fan art that kinda inspired this piece. it's how i imagine young regis to look like, anyway: http://mejev.tumblr.com/post/169899939772/this-was-so-funny-in-my-head-otl-toussaint-youth


	3. The Start of a Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> geralt recovers, regis realizes his intentions may not be so black-and-white, and a new adventure begins.

“Enough!” With more strength then he’d intended, Regis flung Ezehiel away from Geralt’s limp form, sending the vampire crashing through the nearest window. Blood poured from Geralt’s neck in long rivulets, staining the chain-link of his armor a dark shade of red. Time seemed to slow down as the witcher fell, unable to carry his own weight. 

Regis flitted over in a millisecond, catching the man just before he hit the ground. He cradled his head, giving a curse at the extent of the witcher’s injury. If he’d been a regular human, the bite from Ezehiel would have killed him—would have severed his jugular and sent white-hot blood gushing out like a fount. The image of blood spraying against the walls of his dining room sent a shudder of bloodlust through Regis’ frame, fangs unconsciously extending. He drew in a sharp breath and held it, willing his more vampiric features back to dormancy. 

It was as he propped Geralt’s head up with a cushion that Ezehiel returned, soaked to the bone and covered in mud. 

“You threw me out during a storm? Are you mad, Emiel? I barely got a gulp out of him!” 

Regis glared. “I would apologize, Ezehiel, given that you are my elder—but you know the codex as well as I do. No trespassing on another vampire’s territory. I did not invite you here.” 

Ezehiel scoffed. “We’re friends, Emiel.”

“No, you’re friends with my father. I go by Regis, not Emiel. You’d know this if you spent more time listening. All you want is a drinking companion to wax poetic about your numerous scientific pursuits. If they can even be called that.” 

This enraged the man further. “Where is this coming from? Has this witcher been filling your mind with these thoughts? You’d betray the company of your own kind for this man—no, this beast? He’s nothing but an amalgamation of mutations. He’s lower than humans and he willingly executes our brethren and others who came to this awful world from the Conjunction of Spheres.” 

“I don’t have time to argue with you. Please leave now, Ezehiel, or I’ll be forced to eject you once more from my home.” Regis cut the conversation short, noticing that Geralt’s heart rate was now half what it was originally. 

“Don’t think this is over, Regis. You’re fortunate I’m in a forgiving mood; your little pet would be headless if I weren’t so kind. The next time our paths cross, I’ll get the truth out of you, I swear it.” And Ezehiel departed, opting to slip out through the same window he’d been thrown out of, gold-tinged smoke disappearing into the night. 

With a sigh, Regis picked up the witcher, his super-human strength making the otherwise heavier and more muscular human feel as light as a feather in his arms. In moments he had the man resting in his bed, numerous medical supplies laid out on the floor. 

Regis was no stranger to getting into scraps; his medical knowledge, which consisted mostly of vampiric patients, would have to be enough to save Geralt. The dark-haired man hummed as he worked, cleaning the wound before wrapping it up. The scent of the witcher’s blood tempted him, but he resisted—there was no fun in drinking blood from an unconscious human. He enjoyed the fight, the thrill of his fangs scraping against flesh as the person’s heartbeat quickened in pace. His little games perhaps made him more ruthless than others, but for now, it was his mischievous spirit that continued to want to toy with Geralt—and inadvertently keep him alive. 

Just as he snipped the last length of bandages, he picked up the sound of small footsteps approaching his door. 

“Come in, Adriel.” 

Cautiously, the boy peeked his head in, letting out a gasp. “Oh no, poor Mister Witcher!” 

Despite the amount of blood coating both Regis and Geralt, Adriel padded over, small fingers grasping at the unconscious man’s hand. “Is he going to be alright?” 

Regis nodded, ruffling Adriel’s curly locks. “Yes. A mean monster hurt Geralt, but I was able to save him. He’ll be fine after some rest.”

“Good…” Adriel trailed, honey-colored eyes still wide with worry. “Give Mister Witcher my wooden horse when he wakes up, please. It’s good luck. As soon as I started carrying the horse around, I met you! So it’s definitely magical!” 

Regis took the toy with a smile, ushering the boy out of the room. “I swear I will, Adriel. But come now, it is time to take you to your new home. Do not worry, I’ll still watch from afar to make sure you’re safe.”

Nodding, Adriel took Regis’ hand and gave a cute, gap-toothed grin. Something deep inside Regis’ heart melted at the sight. 

…

When Geralt wakes, it is to the worst headache of his life. 

A groan slipped past his lips unwittingly at the feeling of his seemingly lead-heavy limbs cocooned under numerous silk sheets. A wave of vertigo hits the moment he finds the strength to rip the sheets off and place his feet on the wooden floor. 

“Welcome back from the brink of death.” Regis says, closing the tome in his hands. He watches with unabashed amusement as the witcher clumsily rises, clutching at the bandages around his neck. 

“Why didn’t you let him kill me?” Geralt asks. Perhaps Regis too lacked basic self-preservation skills; in his haste to find Adriel, the witcher hadn’t bothered with black blood despite knowingly entering a vampire’s estate. It was a careless mistake that would have gotten most witchers killed. Though, he doubted most witchers would even bother taking on a case of a higher vampire—there was no amount of coin that could ever justify a suicide quest. But here Geralt was, very much alive, and inside a higher vampire’s bedroom. 

Regis cocked his head to the side. “Would you have preferred I let him kill you? My, my, you witchers are quite strange. A simple thank you Regis for saving my inconsequentially infinitesimal life, would have sufficed.” 

Geralt resisted the urge to sigh. “I appreciate you saving me—and bandaging me up. I just want to know why you did something so… selfless, considering that I’m your greatest threat.” 

Peals of laughter rung out, punctuated by a gasping breath. “That’s the most hilarious thing I have ever heard. Congratulations, Geralt, I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in centuries.” 

He wanted to make a snide comment back, but a sharp pain at his neck has Geralt doubling over. When he pulled back his hand, he sees crimson splattered across his skin. 

Regis crosses the length of the room in a moment, near silent in his approach. He says nothing, but gently pushes the witcher to sit on the edge of the bed. His touch is light but warm and Geralt squirms at the feeling of the vampire’s breath against his neck. Every fiber of his being down to his mutated cells is telling him to fight, to slice through sinew and flesh and end the man-shaped monster before him. 

Instead, the witcher focuses on tempering his breathing, amber eyes fluttering closed as he folds his hands in his lap. He tries to slip into a meditative state to no avail; Regis grabs his chin and tilts it, allowing him better access to the wound. 

“Hmm… vampire saliva is a powerful anticoagulant. It may be a day or two until the bleeding completely stops. If you did not have your mutations, you would have bled out by now. Draw yourself a bath in the adjoining bathroom and wash your wound gently. I’ll reapply the healing salve and bandage your wounds again when you return.” 

Geralt obeyed, hand awkwardly hovering by the vampire’s shoulder before giving him a light pat. Thank you, Regis.” 

The vampire shrugged. “It is nothing. Now go, you smell like a week old corpse.” 

When the door closed behind the witcher, Regis let his vampiric features manifest. He’d only gotten a drop of witcher blood—an absentminded lick of his finger when he was first tending to the unconscious man—but it had stirred a hunger in him that had him biting into his own palm to control himself. Geralt tasted like warm honey and it was truly a testament to his self-control that he hadn’t drained him after he chased Ezehiel out of his home. 

In truth, he wasn’t sure how long he would last. Equal parts anger and frustration bubbled up inside him; why did he feel the need to save the witcher? He had deflected the question for one simple reason: he didn’t really have an answer. Not one that made any logical sense, at the very least. It would be easy to lie and say that he wanted to manipulate the witcher, become his friend, and then watch the flicker of realization in his eyes at the moment of his betrayal, divulging forth the sweetest blood Regis had ever tasted, but that would be a pathetic lie. 

He knew of only one thing to do when burdened by intense emotion. Regis took the form of dark smoke and disappeared into the night. Somewhere, a woman screamed. 

…

By the time Geralt exited the bath, having taken longer than usual due to his lethargic state and the lulling warmth of the water, Regis had returned. The witcher was pulling on his undershirt when he paused, taking in the disheveled appearance of the vampire, mood suddenly soured. 

“Why are you covered in blood?” Geralt asked, narrowing his eyes. Splatters of crimson painted Regis’ form, coating his clothes in sticky rivulets. 

“I had a craving.” Regis replied, beginning to unbutton the clasps of his tunic. 

Geralt eyed his twin swords in the corner of the room, hands balling into fists. To think he had almost started to grow used to the monster—but that was the truth, wasn’t it? Regis was a monster. Geralt was a witcher. There was only one foreseeable end to their acquaintanceship. He’d been a fool for thinking otherwise. It was only because the vampire had saved him, helped bandage his wounds, that he wasn’t driving silver into his chest. 

“How many people did you kill?” 

“Just one. Adriel’s mother.” Regis said with disdain, lips curled into a frown. “When I confronted her, she begged pathetically for her life. Told me I could keep Adriel and do whatever I wanted with him.”

Geralt absorbed the information, the moral dilemma weighing upon his heart. Witchers protected humans and killed monsters. But what if the monster was human? If the woman had crossed his path and said similar things about her child, it would take all of his strength not to pull out his sword. Still, did abuse warrant a death sentence? 

“Did you drink from her?” Geralt shifted his approach, wondering just how far Regis had gone when punishing the woman. 

“Yes. When a vampire experiences intense emotion… we sometimes lose ourselves. The rational part of my brain knew that this would only increase my bounty in the village, but I could smell her fear in the air and before I knew it, I was a spectator to my body’s whims. Believe it or not, while I care very little for most humans, I do not strive to be the monster your kind depicts in fairytales.” 

“So all the villages you’ve destroyed… they were destroyed on accident? A momentary lapse in judgment?” Geralt asked incredulously, folding his arms and resting his weight on the footboard of the bed. 

“Not quite. One or two humans a month are usually enough to sate myself, but you can say that my friends aren’t the greatest influence. As more and more blood is spilled, the haze grows thicker and suddenly one live versus one-hundred doesn’t seem like that big of a difference anymore.” Regis said, a sliver of shame apparent on his downcast features. It is gone as quickly as it appears, the vampire swift in changing into simpler, clean clothes. “No use pondering over past mistakes. Now, Geralt, I have a proposition for you.” 

“Oh, this’ll be good.” 

“You see, I’ve grown quite bored of this life. I am tired of my vampiric companions, of their incessant need for vapid talk and frivolous parties. I yearn for something different. You face all manner of foe, riding from village to village, saving damsels from distress and whatnot. Let me travel with you. I can be quite the asset in a battle.” 

“No way. I don’t trust you, not after this last stunt you pulled.” Geralt replied, crossing his arms over his chest. How could he allow himself, as a witcher, to travel with a monster? Even if this monster was rather well behaved (to a degree), it went against every tenant of his teachings. 

“Oh, my apologies. I’m afraid I’ve misled you. I will be accompanying you across Touissant. Nothing—neither your words nor your sword—will stop me. I am horribly stubborn, I know, but hopefully you’ll find this trait endearing someday.” Regis grinned, showing off his fangs. 

Geralt ran a hand down his face, debating the pros and cons of simply walking out of the mansion and never returning. He ultimately had three options: try and likely fail in killing Regis, run away and spend the rest of his years haunted by the shadow of the vampire, or sacrifice his ideals and allow the bloodsucker to be his new traveling companion. All three options seemed equally awful, but at least one of the options gave him the illusion of choice—in setting rules and guidelines the vampire should follow (even if Geralt couldn’t necessarily enforce them). 

“…Fine. But we do this my way. First, you need to smell less like death. If we pass any other witchers they’re going to know what you are. Second, you can’t kill innocents. If I catch your fangs in someone else’s neck—“ 

“Oh, you’ll what? Stake me to death? Dear Geralt, you can’t kill me.” Regis interrupted, flitting about the room at an almost incomprehensible speed. He sometimes drifted into smoke, fetching various pieces of glassware, vampiric artifacts, and other necessities for his travels. 

“I might be unable to kill you, but I can definitely make your life a living hell. I think I’m being rather fair. You’ve only got two rules to follow; surely someone with your intellect will manage.” Geralt said, sarcasm dripping with every word. 

Regis ignored the taunt. Instead, he held out a hand as if to stop Geralt’s ramblings, other hand pressed quizzically to his chin. “Now where did I put it...? Ah, here!” Shaking out his discarded bloodstained clothes, the vampire procured a familiar wooden horse. 

“Regis, what the fuck? Why do you have the kid’s toy?” 

The vampire rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself, witcher. Adriel was incessant on giving the big, scary witcher a good-luck charm. He saw you injured after the attack with Ezehiel and wouldn’t let me tend to you until I swore you’d receive his gift. He’s quite an interesting child…” 

“Where is he, anyway?” 

Regis smiled. “Already safe in his new caretaker’s home. I dropped him off there with a hefty coin purse while you were asleep. I also left some of my ravens there, just in case. I rarely put this much effort into bettering a human’s life, so if Adriel doesn’t become a great king—an asset in my pocket, so to speak—I will be quite miffed.” 

“Uh huh…” Geralt replied, not convinced. There was something gentle underneath the vampire’s cold and calculating persona. He just needed to coax it out… somehow. 

Silently, Geralt wondered if he’d live to see the real Regis, the one that patched him up, withheld his bloodlust, and found a young child a new home. He had the sinking feeling he wouldn’t.

Noting the man’s silence, Regis furrowed his brows. “Hmm, cat got your tongue, witcher? No matter.” He patted the mattress beside him. “Come sit. I need to redress your wounds, as promised. Our adventure cannot start until you are well enough to travel.” 

Begrudgingly, Geralt obeyed, only shivering momentarily as Regis’ cold fingers skimmed his pulse point. He pressed against the wound with a surgeon’s precision, watching as a bead of blood welled up. Languidly, he gave his nail a lick, tasting the familiarly sweet burst of enzymes that promoted blood clotting.

“Well, it’s certainly gotten better. The bite marks look a bit swollen, so this balm should do the trick.” He applied the creamy salve onto the wound before rewrapping the bandages. Geralt remained still, gold eyes flickering to make eyes contact with the vampire as he pulled away. 

“Thanks. You’d make a good healer, you know. If you ever wanted to give up terrorizing villages.” 

Regis laughed, exposing the tips of his fangs. “Perhaps in another life, Geralt. I enjoy being a fiend, to some degree. Healing sounds like a lot of boring, thankless work.” 

“So is being a witcher. But someone has to do it.” 

“Fair enough. Now let’s be on our way—it’ll be dawn soon and I’m sure you’d like to grab a meal and some supplies from the nearest tavern before we really begin our journey.” He gave Geralt’s knee a friendly pat before rising, settling his satchel over his shoulder. 

Though surprised by the amicable gesture, Geralt schooled his features and nodded, grabbing his swords and witcher gear. He placed Adriel’s wooden horse in his potions bag. It was only then that he remembered he still had Regis’ mandrake recipe. 

“Regis, before I forget.” He held out the parchment to the vampire. 

“Thank you, Geralt. I’ll be sure to bring some mandrake with us to brew on our way. Trust me, you’ll love it—assuming I manage to lower its toxicity.” 

Geralt shook his head. It would take a lot of persuading for him to even think of taking a sip of the concoction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u guys are having a lovely night!! congrats to @ embeer2004 who got the vampire's identity right! Ezehiel is the Ezehiel Hildegrard who penned the "Transcript of a Conversation of a Lower Being." He fancies himself some kind of scientist, it seems, since he attempts to "understand" human emotion via psychological torture. Here's a wiki link to his writing if you want to read it: http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/Transcript_of_a_Conversation_with_a_Lower_Being
> 
> anyway, thanks again for all the support!! next chapter will be when the real action hits so i hope y'all are ready for regis and geralt's adventures in touissant lol. i really want them to solve witcher contracts together so if there's a monster u want them to cross paths w/ just lemme know in the comments. 
> 
> oh and p.s. i have a witcher sideblog on tumblr now @riviae if u wanna chat about witcher things~


	4. Wild Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an alternative title: how many times can i make geralt a damsel in distress before regis gets bored?

Five hours. Geralt had been alone with the vampire for five hours and already he felt himself at the end of his patience. He knew Regis was mouthy, prone to bouts of semi-philosophical ramblings that could almost be endearing if he didn’t know that there were fangs hidden underneath his thin lips, but his current tirade had seemingly lasted the entirety of their time together. Combined with the man’s new scent, a mixture of herbs and cinnamon, which aggravated the witcher’s sensitive nose, and Geralt couldn’t imagine a worse traveling companion. 

“So, as I was saying, the physics behind portals and portal making is actually quite complex. Like most things sorceresses conjure up, portals are the byproduct of non-spontaneous reactions catalyzed by an influx of pure energy—or magic, as it is often called. What’s really interesting is that portals are entropic by nature; they cause disorder on a relatively small-scale and—“ 

“Regis, I swear to the gods that I will stab you through the heart if you utter another word.” 

The vampire blinked, scoffing in return. “That wouldn’t kill me, witcher, and you know it.” 

“No, but it’d make me feel better and piss you off.” 

“Nothing but sharp quips from you, hmm? Are poor attempts at wittiness all you have to offer? If so, I may just make a meal of you yet.” 

Geralt balled his hands, feeling the familiar thrum of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Their bickering had only gotten worse since they decided to travel together—but, surprisingly enough, Geralt didn’t feel malice towards the vampire. He was annoyed, tired, frustrated, and moments away from decking him in the face, but he didn’t actually want to kill Regis… in this moment. 

“I can smell wine in the air; we’re a few kilometers away from a village. We should take the opportunity to explore and… mingle with the townsfolk, don’t you think?” Regis asked, changing the subject. His lips curled into a smile too wide for the witcher’s liking. 

At the sudden whine of their horses, both men hopped off, giving the animals a well-deserved break. 

“I’ll check the noticeboard for any contracts and find us a room at the inn. You,” Geralt shoved a finger at Regis’ chest, “are not allowed to do anything vampiric. No materializing into smoke. No seducing young peasant girls for a sip of blood. And, I can’t believe I have to even say this, but no murder. Got it?” 

Regis held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, of course, Geralt. I won’t do anything a witcher wouldn’t be comfortable doing, like swindling peasants of their coin or drinking myself into a stupor.” 

Before Geralt could retort, he found Regis shoving him to the ground, an arrow planting itself firmly in the ground where Geralt had once been standing.  
“Bandits. We’ve stumbled upon a hanse, it seems.” Regis mused, not in the least bit troubled by their new predicament. If anything, he seemed almost pleased at the possibility of bloodshed. 

Geralt unsheathed his steel sword, sighing. “Always the same damn shit.” They both had let their guard down in the early hours of the morning, sure that the fairly well traversed path would be unlikely to have bandits or robbers. Now, having shifted his focus on his surroundings, Geralt could hear the faint sound of hooves, along with the familiar song of arrows volleying through the air. 

Though he knew it was unnecessary, Geralt struck an arrow poised to hit Regis squarely in the chest. As expected, as soon as his sword made contact with the arrowhead, Regis had dissolved into smoke, already anticipating the attack. 

When he reappeared at Geralt’s side, the vampire had a curious tilt to his head, dark eyes peering quizzically at the witcher. “That was a waste of time. I thought witchers were better strategists than that.” 

“It was a reflex,” Geralt said, tightening his grip on his sword and returning to a defensive stance. 

The first bandit arrived on horseback, kicking up a cloud of dust. Geralt used Axii, stunning the horse to throw its rider off its back. He was quick to strike the killing blow, piercing the man’s chest in one fluid motion. 

Regis whistled appreciatively. “So you do have some skill after all.” 

“Shut up, you stupid vamp—“ Geralt felt the words die in his throat as Regis suddenly took the form of smoke and passed underneath him, reappearing to clutch another bandit by the throat. 

Regis held the man off the ground without any noticeable strain, chuckling at the bandit’s attempt to swing his legs at the vampire. “Now, now, a knock to my kneecaps isn’t going to do much, I’m afraid.” 

There was a familiar leer before Regis threw the man to the ground, piercing his fangs into his jugular. Hot blood filled the vampire’s mouth, senses awash with the honey-sweet taste. There was a tinge of bitterness to the man’s blood, but Regis ignored the fear-tainted taste in favor of gorging himself. Who knew when he’d next et the chance to feast—not with a disapproving witcher attached to his hip. 

Sure enough, Regis felt a strong hand tug at the collar of his shirt. He slid his fangs out of the dying man’s flesh, tongue flicking out to catch any remaining drops before he felt the heel of Geralt’s boot make contact with his chest. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Geralt asked, encircling the pair in a yellow barrier. A few arrowheads sent sparks flying, but otherwise bounced harmlessly against the barrier. 

“Having a drink. I was absolutely parched.” 

“We’re having a talk after this,” the witcher muttered, breaking the barrier. At once, more bandits circled the pair. Popping off the cork of a superior swallow potion, Geralt took a swig before charging forward. He easily parried a bandit, knocking the wooden shield from his grip with a kick. His sword slid through flesh and sinew easily, slicing into the man’s neck. The head rolled to Regis’ foot, which the vampire then kicked away with a sneer. 

“Mhmm, guess it’s my turn to make a mess?” Not waiting for a response, Regis moved faster than Geralt’s enhanced vision could track, appearing at the side of an archer. Before the bandit could even hope to draw his sword, Regis had him skewered at the end of his claws, fingers daintily pulling out his heart as the body fell to the ground. 

“M-monsters! They’re both monsters!” A bandit yelled in panic, quickly mounting his horse to ride away from the carnage. 

Regis clicked his tongue, throwing the man off his horse. “Look at that, the pot’s calling the kettle black.” Like before, the vampire was quick to feed on the bandit, silencing his screams with a well-placed bite to his neck. 

Geralt looked away, gaze fixed on the three bandits before him. All three brandished swords and stepped forward in unison, looking to offset the witcher’s balance. Unfortunately for them, Geralt had been in tougher bar fights than this battle—no amount of strategy could outmatch his brawn or his vampiric ally. 

Stunning two of the three bandits with a wave of his hand, Geralt set to tire out the third, bringing his blade down in a series of strong attacks with little reprieve. Eventually, the bandit relinquished hold of his shield and the witcher sent his sword deep into the man’s gut. It was only then that he felt a twinge of pain in his neck—a sudden reminder that he was still injured. The pain, though brief, distracted him long enough that one of the bandits broke free from the sign and slashed at his chest. 

“S-shit…” Geralt muttered, feeling the sharpness of the blade against his sternum, cutting past a layer of chainmail to dig harshly into his skin. A long, thin line of blood welled up and soaked his armor, a scent that immediately caught the attention of Regis. 

The vampire dispatched his two enemies without preamble, slicing through their torsos with his blood-slicked claws. Then, he stood before Geralt, dark eyes rimmed in crimson as he wrapped his hand around the bandit’s neck and squeezed. Blood pooled out of the man’s nose, lips, and eyes until his windpipe was crushed in two, viscera splattering to the ground. 

The final bandit, having just escaped Geralt’s sign, fell to his knees at the sight of his dead comrade’s corpse. He threw his sword down and prostrated himself against the ground, tears spilling from his eyes. 

“P-please, please, I beg of you… do not kill me!” He said in between sobs, head bowed pathetically in front of the men. 

With a hiss of pain, Geralt approached, clutching at the wound at his chest. “Regis—“ he started, only to wince as the vampire sliced the pleading man’s head off without a hint of emotion. 

“My apologies, but I cannot let any humans know what I am,” the vampire said, turning to Geralt. “Well, there are a few exceptions. But what can I say? The scent of human blood brings about my more bestial proclivities.” 

Before Geralt could reply, the world began to sway, his vision producing random flashes of black dots. “Damnnit…” he trailed, bringing his gloved hand to his face. His blood was darker than usual—a sign of poison. 

Reaching out blindly, the witcher was surprised to feel Regis helping him to the ground, sharp nails gently pressed to the back of Geralt’s head. “You humans really are a mess of trouble.” 

Geralt tried to retort, but felt as if his tongue had gone numb, unable to push the words out of his throat. He clawed at his own potion pouch, too weak to pull the proper detoxifier out. His body began to tremble, nerves alight from the poison that thrummed dangerously through his veins. Even his breaths had become shallow, diaphragm unable to expand enough to take in the proper amount of oxygen. Fear gripped the man as he stared up at the vampire, his only chance at survival. 

“From scent alone I can tell this is a fatal dose of Tetrodotoxin. It can easily be harvested from certain salamander species in Touissant. I guess our bandit must have enjoyed playing alchemist in his free time,” Regis said, busying himself by unclasping the medium armor from Geralt’s chest. “This is a dangerous neurotoxin, Geralt. Unconscious behaviors such as breathing and heart rate are going to be affected. Stripping you of your bulky armor should put less stress on your lungs and diaphragm until I can think of a solution. I know you have potions to fight against the toxin, but there’s not enough time.”

Grinding his teeth, Regis took a final look at Geralt’s sickly pallor, something akin to worry flittering across his weathered features. 

“Geralt, you must trust me,” he said cryptically, tightening his grip on the man’s shoulders before sliding his fangs into his neck, opposite of Ezehiel’s bite. Panic seized the witcher even in his half-comatose state, fingers reflexively twisting into the vampire’s tunic. But Regis did not stop drinking, taking in mouthfuls of tainted blood. It felt as if hours had passed since Regis bit him, time slowing to incremental degrees. Geralt thought of his past, of the trial of grasses, his friends Eskel and Lambert, his mentor Vesimir, and his home, that of Kaer Morhen. 

He tried not to think about how much he was letting them all down, trapped in the hold of a vampire he’d been naïve enough to give a modicum of trust. Of course Regis would want blood—it was in his nature. Even as he lay dying, the vampire had to gulp down a few drops. 

Just as his vision began to tunnel, the blue skies above growing dangerously grey, Regis drew back, crimson coating his teeth and lips. 

“I got out as much poison as I could without killing you. Your mutations should finish the job. Rest, Geralt. No harm will come to you.” 

Though he wanted to protest, the warmth of unconsciousness drew itself around the witcher like a wool blanket, silencing any of his doubts or concerns. 

…

A sense of déjà vu seized Geralt when he awoke a few hours later. He was perched carefully on the back of Roach, a certain vampire taking up the majority of the saddle. At his shifting, Regis turned to look at the witcher, giving a grin. 

“I do say, I’m starting to feel like your caretaker. Have you always been such a handful?” 

“I…I’m alive?” Geralt said, tone laced with surprise. 

Regis rolled his eyes. “Yes. Thanks to my quick wit, I was able to drain most of the poison out of your system. Which tasted horribly, might I add.” He wrinkled his nose at the memory. It was only the last drought of blood or two that was actually enjoyable for the vampire. Otherwise, it tasted as if he’d bitten into rotten fruit. Neither fragrant nor nutritional, some sluggishness had assaulted his limbs, but it was sure to dissipate by the next day. 

“Why do you keep saving me?” 

“I don’t know,” Regis started, honestly. “Perhaps I’ve grown accustomed to your prickly disposition.” In truth, he was beginning to see Geralt as a comrade. He’d gone from potential meal to potential friend in the span of a few days—something akin to empathy slithering its way into Regis’ chest. 

But how many vampires outwardly felt empathy towards a human? Regis was sure the number was less than a handful. Fortunately, it seemed he only felt a weakness for Geralt—he felt nothing when he killed the bandits. But the idea of the witcher, dead and decaying in some grave, stirred a great deal of melancholy. He recalled one of his acquaintances, Dettlaff van der Eretein, and how the vampire had always been emotional, finding affection in lower vampires and humans. He had thought Dettlaff to be mad, but perhaps there was something in allowing one to learn of lesser species. Even humans. 

“…Thank you, Regis,” Geralt finally responded, settling to patting the other man’s shoulder. 

Regis hummed in return, gaze set to the road. In the horizon, he could see the first village in their travels. 

It seemed their trek across Touissant would be an interesting one, at the very least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i can think about in this chapter is that Brooklyn 99 scene w/ rosa holding the puppy and saying, “I didn't understand why people care so much about their dumb dogs until I got a dumb dog myself. I've only had Arlo for a day and a half. But if anything happened to him, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.” but replace rosa w/ regis and the dog is geralt LMAO. 
> 
> also pls do not try to suck out the venom/poision/toxin/etc. from someone’s wound. it won’t work lol. this is the witcherverse and if vampires can turn into smoke then i can float the idea of regis being able to suck the poison from geralt’s blood even if Tetrodotoxin is a neurotoxin i.e., effects neurons in the brain… 
> 
> like i’m literally graduating w/ a neuroscience degree in less than a week, but sometimes u just gotta implement some pseudoscience, ya know? anyway, thanks for sticking with this story and putting up w/ my hella long author’s notes. ur all angels!! 
> 
> we'll finally get our first witcher contract and detective-esque sequence in the next chapter, so i hope y'all look forward to it~


	5. The Curse of Caroberta Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is a brief respite before regis and geralt stumble upon a vestige of evil.

“Can you manage on your own, Geralt?” Regis asked once his feet touched the ground, giving the brown mare a cursory stroke of her mane. The horse gave a fretting whine, as if suddenly realizing what sort of creature had been perched upon her back, and reared up, unaware of the injured witcher still clutching her reigns. 

“Easy, Roach,” the witcher said, signing axii with his right hand. The mare immediately calmed and Geralt gave a sigh of relief. “Regis, careful. Nearly had Roach buck me off.” 

Regis offered a hand. “My apologies. I usually ride mules—it slipped my mind.” 

“How do you forget that you’re a vampire?” Geralt muttered under his breath but took Regis’ outstretched hand, feet wobbly finding purchase against the dirt. 

It was then that Geralt was able to properly take in his surroundings. Francollarts was a small, quaint village in the middle of Caroberta Woods. A dense canopy of oaks fringed the outskirts, blotting out the late-afternoon sun. Children laughed loudly in the streets while the adults loitered in front of their brick houses, smoking pipes or knitting on wooden rocking chairs. A lake rested in the middle of the village and Geralt watched as a few adolescents went fishing on the stone-laden bridge that stretched across the placid water. Underneath the sign for the two-story inn was a pyramid of wine barrels, plenty of townsfolk already in the throes of merriment on the wide wooden porch. All in all, it was a village straight out of a fairy tale and if it weren’t for Regis’ strong grip against his waist, the witcher would have thought he was still dreaming. 

Together, the pair entered the inn, not unaware of the blatant stares of the patrons. They looked like a proper mess—Regis, with crimson painted indiscriminately across his chest and tattered clothes, and Geralt, with bloodstains coating his upper shoulder and neck, it was a miracle no one had barred them from the village altogether. While the bandages covered Ezehiel’s bite were thankfully clean, Regis’ bite on the opposite side was slathered in dried blood, a purple bruise blooming against the witcher’s pale skin. Geralt grimaced as he stepped past the threshold, gold eyes narrowed in pain. His hand automatically pressed against the wound near his sternum, the torn chainmail revealing the shallow cut of the blade. 

“My goodness, what a mess!” the innkeep exclaimed at the sight of them. “You strangers must have stumbled upon something horrid!” 

“That would be an understatement,” Regis supplied, reaching into his satchel to retrieve his coin purse. He sprinkled a few crowns generously onto the wooden counter. “We seek lodging, food, and supplies. What does this village have?”  
The woman snatched up the coins with a grin before retrieving two wine glasses and setting them in front of the men. She poured the bottle of Sansretour chardonnay with a soft smile. “I’ve seen those same weary eyes in plenty of travelers. First, you’ll need some spirits. I’ll fetch what I have left of the fish tart and some brioche for you both.” 

Gingerly, Geralt took a seat on the bar stool, sipping the wine with a pleased sigh. Regis followed suit, fingers interlacing comfortably on the table. The innkeep returned with their food: the fish tart and a basket overflowing with brioche. 

“Lodging will be ten crowns apiece, unless you are willing to share a room.” 

“One room is fine,” Geralt interjected, finishing his first glass of wine. 

“Are you sure, Geralt? I have coin to spare—“ 

“Coin you should save for supplies and goods.” Geralt did not vocalize his distrust in the vampire, which was the real motivator of his decision. It would be more difficult for Regis to slip away in the night to feast upon unsuspecting villagers if they shared a room. Though, he knew that there was nothing he could physically do to keep Regis from sating his bloodlust if he decided to go on a rampage—he could turn into smoke, kill Geralt in a moment, and drink his fill, all without breaking a sweat. 

No, there wasn’t much Geralt could do to control Regis’ bloodlust—but he damn well was going to try. 

If Regis suspected the true reason behind Geralt’s decision, he did not show it. Instead, he merely pulled out the requested amount and a few crowns extra. “As for amenities that this village has?” 

“Oh, yes, forgive me sir! There is an armorer three houses down, past the bridge. He also does blacksmithing work if that suits your needs. If you are in need of supplies, Bastien acts as our resident merchant. You can often find by the signpost in the morning.” 

After finishing their drinks and their meals, the two retired upstairs to their room. The door creaked open to reveal a rather standard room, a single cot wedged against the wall, and one set of drawers. There was fortunately an adjoining bathroom, which Geralt claimed first. Regis busied himself about the room, taking stock of their supplies and even going so far as to check Geralt’s potion pouch. He arranged the potions by type on the floor, humming to himself. 

When the witcher returned, he looked considerably better—a miracle that only a warm bath could provide. He put his discarded armor onto the dresser, leaning his twin swords against the wall. With only a towel wrapped around his waist, he jabbed a thumb towards the bathroom. “Your turn.” 

Water dripped from his long white locks, bare feet padding against the wooden floor as he bent down to analyze Regis’ arrangement of potions. Now that his head was no longer spinning and he felt as if downing a potion wouldn’t render him unconscious, Geralt uncorked a White Rafford’s decoction and drank, sighing with relief as the potion did its work. Already, he could feel himself healing, sinew stitching back together at a faster-than-human rate. It was moments like these where he truly appreciated his witcher mutations. 

Regis excused himself to take a brisk bath, returning just as Geralt began to meditate, sitting on his knees with his eyes closed. The witcher had changed his own bandages during his free time, covering both the wounds at his neck and the cut at his sternum. 

“Are you not sleeping?” the vampire asked, shuffling across the room to the cot. Like Geralt, he too was only in his smallclothes, and while the idea of sharing a bed with a wounded witcher had a certain… allure, he did have some worry about their proximity. 

For one, Regis wasn’t the type to deny himself of blood. Now that the witcher was free of toxins and well onto the road to recovery, his natural honey-sweet scent was calling out to the vampire. He had drunk fresh blood less than twenty-four hours ago, but the burning in his throat remained. It was always there, taunting him at every waking moment, and a modicum of anxiety slithered in his gut at the thought of bleeding the man dry in his sleep. 

“Don’t need to. Meditating should be fine.” Geralt paused, opening an eye curiously. “Do vampires need to sleep?” 

“We’re just as alive as any other beings, so yes. Sleep is a necessity. Which means sleep is necessary for you too, witcher.” 

Before Geralt could retort, he felt a warm hand at his shoulder. “Come now, don’t make me tuck you into bed like a child.” 

The witcher reluctantly stood, awkwardly placing his hands on his hips as he stared at the cot. There was enough room for them to share it—but it would be a tight squeeze. Hesitantly, Geralt slid underneath the sheets, turning his back so he faced the wall. The bed groaned against the extra weight as Regis followed suit, hand accidentally ghosting over Geralt’s shoulder when he pulled the sheet up. With a snap of the witcher’s finger, the only candle in the room was unlit, plunging the room in darkness. 

“Comfortable?” Regis asked, a teasing lilt taking over his voice. 

“As comfortable as I’d be sharing a coffin with a corpse,” Geralt retorted. 

“I take offense to that. Like I said, vampires aren’t dead or undead. We’re very much alive.” 

Geralt shivered at the puffs of hot breath that tickled his neck. He could still remember the feeling of Regis’ lips and teeth against his throat—something that had not, to his chagrin, been as unpleasant as when Ezehiel clamped his teeth into his flesh. Perhaps because Regis hadn’t been aiming to kill, but rather save his life. In the moment, he’d felt fear in the pit of his stomach, at thinking he’d been betrayed so easily. But, to his credit, nothing about Regis’ touch had been lethal. 

It made hating him so much harder.

“Could you stop breathing against my neck? It’s creepy. Turn over or something.” Annoyance—whether at his own tumultuous feelings or the fact that there was a vampire pressed against his back—crept into his voice. He was being reckless. He knew it. He was sharing a bed with a higher vampire of all things (he could only imagine the disapproving look on Vesemir’s face if he knew), touting him along on the Path as if he was some harmless mascot and not a beast designed to kill. 

“I’m not stupid enough to attack you in our shared room, Geralt. I don’t need an entire village to come after me with pitchforks—it would be most unpleasant.” To this end, Regis did not turn, but buried his head further down so that his breath hit his spine. 

Which, for Geralt, wasn’t much better. 

“Do you even need to breathe?” Geralt asked before his brain could analyze his words. Were there questions that were sensitive to vampires?

“To talk, one must inhale and exhale breath, so to that effect, yes. Breathing is vital,” he stared at Geralt’s back with interest, vampiric eyes tracing the patchwork of scars the witcher had already received despite his youth. “Before you ask, vampires also have a fully functioning circulatory system, a four-chambered heart that beats slowly, but regularly, and possess the same senses as humans. The only difference is that we have an overdeveloped olfactory sense, with a vomeronasal system that lets us more easily detect changes in scent, especially to pheromones.” 

Geralt absorbed the vampire’s words, cataloguing the information in the back of his mind. The few tomes on higher vampires at Kaer Morhen had been sparse in any area not related to their weaknesses and the witcher suddenly realized how much knowledge was at his fingertips. He could ask Regis anything, and assuming the vampire wasn’t playing tricks, he would know more about perhaps the greatest threat to a witcher’s life than anything else. 

“Are higher vampires truly immortal?"

“Planning to kill me in my sleep, witcher?” Regis asked, tone light. He was in fairly good spirits for one reason or another.

“Just curious. It’s hard for humans to envision what living forever would be like.” 

“…It isn’t all that wondrous. We’re resistant to disease, but we do age. We have a similar growth rate to humans up until we reach young adulthood. After that, aging slows considerably, we begin our first real bouts of bloodlust, and we are pushed out of our nests, so to speak. Our lifespan isn’t truly infinite, but we can live thousands, if not millions of years. We can also only be killed by—“ Regis stopped himself, biting his tongue. “Forgive me, I’d rather not give the specifics.” 

Geralt said nothing, letting the noise from the rowdy patrons below drift up through the floorboards. It wasn’t till some time later that he cleared his throat, hoping to break whatever tension had befallen them. “If you have any questions about witchers, I could answer them. It’s only fair.” 

With his back turned, Geralt did not see the glimmer of intrigue that passed the vampire’s obsidian eyes. “Hmm, where to start…? I have plenty of questions.” 

“Let’s narrow it to three. We’ll have an early start tomorrow. We need to gather supplies and check the noticeboard for any witcher contracts.” 

“Fine.” Regis tugged at the sheets until they covered his shoulders. “The Trial of Grasses. What is that like? I’ve only read about it in tomes.” 

Geralt grimaced. “It’s like having your body broken and remolded again and again until you become something you don’t recognize. Not many survive. The mutations are necessary for our lifestyle, but they cause unimaginable pain. It usually causes death.” 

“Are the trials why your hair is white? I’ve been quite curious since our first meeting. Your cat eyes are definitely due to the mutations, but I’ve never come across snow-white hair as being a possible byproduct of the trials. Or at least it’s not mentioned in anything I have read.” 

“No. I took to the Trial of Grasses better than most so I was subjected to more experimentation. I was the only one to survive. The white hair came soon after.” 

Regis paused, searching for the right words. “I am sorry. Those must have been terrible times.” 

“They were. But they shaped me into who I am today,” Geralt replied. “Now, you’ve got one more question. Choose wisely.” 

The vampire pondered his final question, bringing his finger pensively to his chin. “What about witcher lifespans? What are they like?” 

“Long. Longer than any human. I’ve heard of witcher living half a millennia. With my extra mutations, I could live longer.” 

The pair devolved into silence, the weight of Geralt’s words settling over them. Witchers, like vampires, did not have a place in a world controlled by humans. 

They were kindred spirits, Regis realized in his last thoughts before sleep. 

…

At dawn, they awoke and prepared for their journey. Geralt had somehow fallen asleep with his leg wedged in the space between the cot and the wall, but otherwise, felt refreshed. Regis, similarly, woke with a smile on his lips, pleased that he had been able to be so close to a human and not give in to his bloodlust. 

After securing supplies, new clothing, and dropping of their damaged armor at the armorer to be repaired, the pair took to the noticeboard. Geralt peered at the nonsense, gaze drifting from a notice about a woman selling bronze doorknobs to a contract of interest. 

“Archespore infestation. Common Beauclair fair,” Regis noted. 

“Something about this doesn’t add up,” Geralt muttered, following the directions to the yellow roofed house where the contractor lived. “Archespores grow in places marked by tragedy, but look around—there’s nothing here to suggest any bloody ritual or crime.” 

The contractor, a retired banker who had stumbled upon the Archespore infestation when picking mushrooms in the surrounding forest, marked the general area on Geralt’s map. 

“You’ll know you’re near when you pass a cave with some sort of boulder rolled before it,” the banker said, sending the pair on their way. 

The trek through the woods was rather pleasant. Geralt was able to use axii to send a few wolves back to their pack, sparing them of any bloodshed. It was only when they were roughly a kilometer away from the infestation that Regis stilled, fingers digging into the strap of his satchel. 

Geralt turned around, confusion apparent in his features. “What’s wrong?” 

“We must leave, now.” The vampire said with urgency, grabbing Geralt’s wrist, grip as tight as iron. 

“Regis, what the hell is going on—“

The vampire pointed at the boulder before the cave and the unfamiliar sign painted in crimson. “The stone has the mark of my tribe, Gharasham. Whatever lies deeper in the forest will be some unspeakable horror.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for that cliffhanger lmao but i wanted to break up this section into 2 chapters. here's hoping geralt and regis make it out of this alright ^^; we may get another meeting from a certain vampire soon, but that's all i'll tell u for now ;3c also, this isn't tesham mutna btw, but something completely else.
> 
> thanks again to everyone leaving such lovely comments and kudos. y'all are the best motivation a writer could ask for <3


	6. Balancing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> regis confronts his past. geralt is left picking up the pieces--both figuratively and literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter include excessive gore and violence.

The sudden caw of ravens echoed overhead, sending a cold shiver down Regis’ spine. Though Geralt thought it impossible, Regis’ grip grew tighter, enough to cause him to let out a hiss of pain. 

“Shit, it’s too late.” Regis dropped Geralt’s wrist, a modicum of fear slithering across his features. Sweat broke out upon his brow, lips pulled into a thin line. “We need to come up with a plan.” 

“Plan? I don’t even know what the hell is going on!” Geralt’s voice rose with every word, frustration carving a heavy grimace onto his face. 

“We have stumbled upon another higher vampire’s territory—someone who is older and more powerful than I. Those ravens,” Regis pointed to their fading visage, “I know all too well.” The scent of carrion was thick in the air; it was the cloying scent of death that the ravens brought, a scent that Regis knew a certain vampire wore like a fragrant perfume. 

Before Geralt could begin his volley of questions, Regis pressed a finger to his lips. “It won’t be pleasant, but you must pretend that you are my thrall.” 

The witcher ripped Regis’ hand away, golden eyes narrowing. “Fuck off. That’s not happening.” 

A bubble of despairing laughter escaped the vampire’s throat. “You thought I was a monster? Geralt, this vampire will kill you without blinking an eye. He is ruthless. Evil. Truly evil.” 

In truth, Regis was worried for Geralt’s life—he was still recovering from his wounds and with that mouth of his… all of Regis’ attempts at keeping the witcher alive for the sake of entertainment would be for naught. It was out of a purely selfish motive that he strove to protect Geralt again and again, he told himself, even if it was beginning to sound like a flimsy lie. 

Geralt sighed, his earlier fury now cooled. “Is there really nothing else we can do? What if we leave now?” 

“It would be no use. Running away would be rude and I do not want to incur the wrath of this particular vampire. He has precedence over a terrible historic landmark, one that, if you were to see it, would likely cause you to try and kill me on the spot, Geralt.” 

“…I don’t like this,” Geralt started, folding his arms. “But, I know nothing about vampire customs or laws. I’ll let you lead.”

Regis clasped his shoulders with both hands, sighing in relief. “Good. We may just get out of this unscathed.” He paused, bringing a hand to the bandage that marked his own bite. “Now, lets put mine and Ezehiel’s bites to good use.”  
…

“I fucking hate this,” Geralt muttered, scowling as they trekked through the cavern. Drops of water from hanging stalactites dripped onto the ground, aiding in the cacophony of splashes that increased the farther they walked. 

“Quiet. Remember, thralls do not speak unless spoken to,” Regis uttered, fixing the witcher a harsh glare. 

“Yeah, yeah. No autonomy. No sarcastic comments. And I have to act like I actually enjoy your company.” 

“For your sake, I hope you’re a fairly good actor. Otherwise, this will end with your head on a pike while I’m cut up into tiny pieces and forced to spend half a century regenerating.” 

Bickering aside, the pair traversed the cavern with relative ease. At a particularly high ledge, Regis turned to smoke and reappeared at the top, reaching out a hand for the witcher. 

“Thanks,” Geralt said, feeling the strength behind Regis’ form for the first time since their original meeting. The vampire easily pulled Geralt up onto the ledge with one hand, an astounding feat considering that the witcher was bulkier than Regis. 

Before long, the cavern grew narrower, forcing them to walk single-file, Geralt reluctantly following behind Regis. It took effort to not draw his sword, senses alight with conflicting stimuli. He could feel the darkness here in the mouth of the cavern as if it were a corporeal entity weighing against his chest. It smothered him in its embrace and if it weren’t for Regis’ presence, Geralt would have likely turned back. All his training had prepared him to know when a fight would lead to death—whatever vampire rested here was old, powerful, and would be unlikely to spare the witcher. 

The closer they got to the source of the foreboding aura, the more Geralt wondered if Regis would be spared—it did not seem like an entity that would take kindly to a vampire and a witcher traveling together. 

Regis stopped suddenly, coming to what appeared to be a dead end. With a flick of his hand, the vampire triggered the mechanism, revealing the end of the dome-shaped cavern, which had been outfitted to be some sort of lab. 

Bookcases filled to the brim with dusty tomes encircled the walls of the room. An alchemy station with an unimaginable amount of ingredients took up one-third of the space. Opposite of the alchemy supplies were rows of towering black cages. While most were empty, there were a few that had accumulated piles of human bone, blood splatters staining the bars. In the center of the room was a row of metal gurneys. Some had uncovered human remains in various states of decay, body parts strewn about. A drain had been fixed below the gurneys, collecting the steady drops of crimson that oozed out of the freshest corpse. 

It was enough blood to cause Regis to stifle a growl, the stench near overpowering now that they were in the thick of it. Though it was barely visible, Geralt did notice the slight tremble in Regis’ hands—something, he realized with a sinking feeling, was not due to fear, but bloodlust. 

In the ceiling of the room was a grate that let in natural light—though the grate was too small for any human to ever hope to use it as an escape. Instead, grey smoke poured from the opening, slipping past the bars to materialize into the shape of a man. 

Geralt’s eyes widened at the sight. The vampire, who took on the appearance of a human in their late thirties, flashed an all too familiar grin. Pin straight black hair was gathered into a long ponytail, highlighting his prominent widow’s peak. His hair blended in with his all-black heavy armor, cutting an imposing appearance that reminded Geralt vaguely of the breastplate that knights wore—or, at least, a bastardization of it. His eyes were a deep blue—something almost unnatural in their intensity. He had minimal stubble, enough to leave a shadow that made his smile all the more sinister. 

“Welcome, Regis. What a pleasant surprise,” the vampire said, eyes flitting briefly from Regis to Geralt. “Hmm, you have a pet now? That is news to me.” 

“Akoni,” Regis started, giving a bow. “It is good to see you. Yes, this is my thrall. I picked him up not too long ago.” 

“I see…” Akoni removed his gauntlets, walking smoothly towards Geralt. He lifted a hand up to his throat, gaze turned to Regis expectantly. 

Regis bristled, clenching his jaw. “Do what you wish.” 

A momentary flash of panic flashed across Geralt’s eyes before he felt the cold touch of Akoni’s fingers and stilled. The vampire grabbed his chin tightly, moving his face so that he could inspect both bites. It reminded Geralt vaguely of how Regis had observed the bite given by Ezehiel—but even then, when their relationship was much more tumultuous, Regis had been gentle as he applied the salve to his wound. This vampire’s touch was lethal, as if he did not know how to hold anything with a modicum of tenderness. 

As if he only knew how to break things. 

“Mhmm, he smells delightful. I’m proud of you, little brother. Many your age would be unable to turn a witcher into a thrall.” Akoni grinned, dragging his thumb against Geralt’s thrumming pulse. His hand traveled the length of the witcher’s throat, a low rumble escaping the vampire’s lips. 

“Oops, how clumsy of me,” Akoni said as he cut a thin line into Geralt’s skin. Crimson welled upon his nail, which he licked up with the elegance of a cat, cold eyes lidded with bloodlust. “I don’t get to indulge very often now that the Unseen Elder has given me the title of Champion, so forgive me, Regis.” 

Geralt focused on appearing apathetic in the face of genuine danger, thankful for once that he did not have a wide range of facial expressions. He kept his muscles as slack as possible, fighting against the urge to reach for his scabbard and slice the vampire in half with a single arc of his wrist. 

“Geralt, come here,” Regis commanded, waving his hand in a way that reminded the witcher of casting a sign. He felt the tendrils of Regis’ will, but they did not overwhelm him. He was of sound mind as he walked to Regis’ outstretched arms. 

Geralt sucked in a breath as Regis gripped the nape of his neck, pushing him forward so that he was caged in the vampire’s arms. The sudden closeness only amplified the witcher’s discomfort. Though he was turned away from Akoni, he could feel the man’s eyes upon him. 

The witcher jolted in surprise when he felt the dull scrape of fangs at his neck. There wasn’t enough pressure to break the skin, but Geralt shivered nevertheless, shooting Regis a sharp glare when he lifted his head away from the man’s throat. 

Regis did not visibly react; instead, he merely brushed back a few errant strays of silver hair from the witcher’s face. His gaze was unreadable and for a moment, Geralt was unsure what the vampire planned to do until he felt himself being led to the chair at the alchemical station. 

“Sit here, I’ll have a drink later,” Regis said dismissively, any of the natural warmth in his voice, the teasing lilt Geralt was accustomed to, replaced with an icy veneer. 

Sitting on the stool with his hands folded in his lap, a sudden realization hit Geralt: Regis had moved him further away from Akoni, as far as he could without it being suspicious. The vampire now stood so that if Akoni were to attempt to attack Geralt, he would have to first go through Regis. 

“There’s no reason to be shy, Regis. We’re family, after all.” He motioned to Geralt. “If you are thirsty, drink. He’s such a pretty thing; you’ve always had good taste, whether it was in books or blood.” 

Regis, to his credit, did not react to the taunt. Instead, he cleared his throat, leaning so that he rested against the alchemy table. “It’s been six years since we’ve seen each other. How is it, being the Champion? Having to punish vampires that break our codex… is it interfering much with your experiments?” 

Akoni gave a good-natured chuckle, something akin to softness crossing his features. It made Regis’ stomach flop; somewhere underneath the haughtiness and wickedness was the Akoni he remembered, the one that spent his time pouring over tomes with Regis when he was but a child. It would have been easier if there were nothing of Akoni’s kindness left—it was seeing the shadow of the older brother who ruffled his hair and walked with him through their family’s sprawling garden and always treated him like they were equals despite their wide gap in age that hurt the most. 

“It’s been taxing, that’s for sure. I prefer my work as a scientist to that of torturing our own people, but it is a necessary evil. Just yesterday I imprisoned a vampire whose bloodlust rivaled Khagmar’s. Though even I was not alive when Khagmar was imprisoned, the similarities between them were apparent from the stories that were passed down.” Akoni crossed the length of the room, moving so that he was beside Regis, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “I rarely get to see you, dear brother, but I’d be disobeying the Unseen Elder if I did not warn you. I’m sorry that the news is so bleak.” 

“What news?” Regis asked, swallowing the bubble of fear caught in his throat. 

“Well, word of your… escapades has reached the Unseen Elder. Your motley crew of blood-guzzlers has already been punished. Well, almost all of them.” 

Regis flinched when Akoni gripped his wrist, dark blue eyes boring into his own. His other hand reached to ruffle Regis’ hair and the vampire couldn’t help but lean into the touch. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend nothing had changed. That Akoni was still the older brother he idolized and not the catalyst for his descent into abusing blood. When Akoni had come back to the manor a different vampire suddenly, someone who barely gave Regis a cursory glance, he had looked for company and friendship with other vampires his age to fill the ache of loneliness in his young heart. 

But Regis was not like other vampires—he’d only spent time with those far beyond his age and everything from his interests to the way he spoke and dressed were not well received. So he started to cause mischief. Terrorized villages. Became popular for simply being a menace to humans, for being someone who was always ready for merrymaking, for being someone who had no real moral compass. 

And now he was paying the price for his actions. 

“Shh, I could never hurt you, Regis. You are my blood-kin. I only wish to implore you to cease with the excessive merriment. There are plenty of blood farms across Toussaint with Battery-Cage humans. Sure, their blood is not as good as Free-Range humans, but with this, you can drink your fill.” 

“Yes, of course. My actions as of late have been… shameful. I am slowly weaning myself off of blood, taking only from my thrall,” Regis said, a sliver of truth in his lie. 

Akoni nodded, squeezing Regis’ shoulder in a familiar manner—it would have been comforting, if it weren’t for the predatory look upon his features. He looked as if he’d caught Regis in some kind of trap and it was only then that the vampire noticed that Akoni was no longer staring at him, but at Geralt. 

“I hate to ask this… it’s a silly fear of mine, but Regis, is that witcher truly your thrall?” 

“Yes,” Regis responded without hesitation, willing himself to remain still, to not let his gaze travel to Geralt and betray his true feelings. 

A long silence passed in which all Regis heard was the frantic beating of his own heart, blood pounding in his ears. Then, Akoni released his shoulder, stepping back. For a moment, a glimmer of hope nestled itself in the vampire’s heart. Perhaps Akoni had fallen for the bluff. 

“…Regis, you should know better than to lie to my face.” In a motion that Geralt’s eyes could not process, Akoni had Regis by the throat, lifting his feet off the floor. “Ezehiel only received a minor reprimand since he told me all about your sudden… attachment to a silver-haired witcher.” 

“H-he’s lying! The witcher means nothing to me!” Regis struggled in vain, fingers clawing at the other man’s wrists. 

With a dark chuckle, Akoni threw Regis into the nearest shelf. There was an audible crack as the bookshelf toppled over, burying the vampire in an avalanche of broken wood and heavy tomes. He did not stir. 

“I am he who serves the Tribe. Exalted above men, I renounce human weakness. Uplifted above men, I become Keeper of my Flock. Filled with Strength, I turn my sword against the enemies of the Tribe. I am Master and Slave. I am executor of the Will of the Tribe. I accept this sword and this armor so I may serve the Tribe,” he recited, pulling on the black mask. With his face covered, all Geralt could see was the unbridled fury behind his blue eyes and it, for a moment, stilled the hand that had gone to reach for his blade. 

“Regis, did you know that the Tesham Mutna armor and sword were originally made for a human Champion? Alas, humans are so incredibly fragile. It is much simpler for a vampire to bear the title.” 

Akoni stalked forward with the grace of a monster on the prowl. He clashed his claws together, the sound of metal on metal screeching through the lab. At that moment, Geralt sprung into action, signing Quen and attacking with his sword. 

Just before his sword made contact with flesh, Akoni vanished into smoke, reappearing behind the witcher. “Now, now, that’s not very nice.” Geralt barely managed to twist around and block the blow, razor-sharp nails raking against his blade, immediately shattering his shield. The force of the blow had him skidding across the room, knocking into the one of the gurneys. It overturned, sending Geralt sprawling onto the floor with it.

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed, wiping blood from his eyes. He was drenched in the corpse’s lukewarm blood, crimson painting his newly acquiesced armor. As he rose to stand, he saw Akoni grab Regis by the throat again, claws poised at his shoulder. Geralt ran forward, slipping briefly on the blood-soaked floor as he desperately tried to reach Regis in time. 

“There’s no written punishment for lying to the Champion and involving yourself with a witcher, so I’ll have to improvise,” Akoni said before tearing Regis’ left arm off, throwing the limb across the room. It skidded to a stop before Geralt, halting him in his tracks. 

Regis, in a state of semi-consciousness, howled out in pain, the scream of anguish echoing through the cavern. As if it weren’t enough, Akoni dug his hand into the middle of Regis’ chest and tugged, pulling out buckets of viscera. Blood trickled from Regis’ lips as he let out another choked scream. The amount of pain was dizzying—greater than anything the vampire had ever experienced. 

Everything hurt. He wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and fall into the cold darkness of unconsciousness, but Akoni gripped the nape of his neck, forcing him to meet his gaze. 

The room spun around him as he looked into Akoni’s eyes, a startling realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water. For all the ease in which he tore his younger brother apart, Regis saw the wetness in his eyes. 

He was doing this out of some twisted duty to their tribe. There was no pleasure here, only sadness and rage. Sadness for what he had to do and rage for Regis putting him in this position. Regis’ eyes rolled to the back of his head suddenly, a spasm of pain wracking his body. 

“Regis!” Geralt bellowed, rushing towards the vampire.  


As Geralt approached, the scent of blood grew stronger and Regis snarled, face morphing into his more vampiric form. 

“Oh… what’s this?” Akoni’s interest was apparent as Regis, who had otherwise taken the state of a bleeding corpse, dragged himself forward on his stomach, crawling towards the witcher. 

“Well, this certainly solves all my problems.” Before Geralt could move, Akoni scooped Regis up and deposited him into an empty cage. The vampire whimpered as his back slammed against the bars but made no move to get up. 

“Your turn, witcher,” Akoni said, grabbing Geralt by the collar and flinging him into the cage. Geralt grunted as he fell beside Regis. Akoni slammed the door shut and locked it, grinning all the while. “Regis will recover after drinking your blood and you’ll die painfully. It’s a win-win scenario.” Seemingly pleased with himself, Akoni turned into smoke and disappeared through the grate, leaving the witcher and wounded vampire alone. 

“Regis, shit, how can I help?” Geralt reached towards the vampire before pulling back at Regis’ snarl, black eyes devoid of recognition. 

“Regis, it’s me. Geralt. Come on, let me help you. We can get out of here—“ Geralt grunted as he was shoved to the ground, pinned by Regis’ weight. His right hand gripped the witcher’s bicep, tongue lapping at the blood sticking to his exposed skin. 

“Fuck, I don’t want to hurt you, Regis. Snap out of it. This isn’t you.” Geralt tried again, not yet ready to pull out his sword. It would be a last resort, the witcher decided. If he simply tried to run away and leave Regis here, he’d be hunted down by Akoni. And, Regis had tried his best to keep the witcher from falling into harm—the least Geralt could do was return the favor. 

The witcher’s thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of Regis’ tongue at his pulse, lapping at the dried blood there. He hadn’t dug his fangs into his skin yet, but Geralt knew that the meager amount of blood wouldn’t sate the injured, blood-starved vampire for long. He had to think of something, anything to save them both. 

First, he needed Regis to return to his senses—preferably before draining him to death. 

“Regis,” Geralt started again, hesitantly reaching a hand up to ruffle the vampire’s hair as he’d seen Akoni do. “It’s alright. It’s me. You know, the annoying witcher that’s kept you on the road to sobriety? Kind of. I’m really not doing the best job, but still…” He rambled, noting that Regis had stilled, lifting his head up to stare into Geralt’s eyes. 

He gave a quizzical cock of his head, a Regis mannerism Geralt had become familiar with, and the witcher breathed a sigh of relief. There was some progress. 

“Yeah, I never did genuinely thank you for saving my life when I got poisoned. I still can’t believe you did that—you could’ve been rid of me so easily and gotten a meal out of it. But, you’re damn stubborn. I guess you’ve decided I’ve got to live a little longer, huh? Otherwise, I’d have been ripped to shreds by now. I think I’m finally finding your stubbornness endearing,” Geralt continued, giving a soft smile despite being face-to-face with a hungry, wounded higher vampire. He couldn’t help but think of Vesemir and how much the old witcher would chastise him for even getting into a situation where he’d be trapped with a bloodthirsty monster—especially since he was opting for a non-violent approach, something that could very easily get him killed. 

The tension in the witcher’s muscles increased as the vampire dipped his face into the crook of his neck, breathing deeply. Silence, save for Regis’ haggard breaths echoed in the cramped cell, as time passed. Eventually, Regis blinked owlishly, the black of his sclera receding until he returned to his regular form, skin ashen and pale. Pain and panic flooded his features.“…Geralt? Did I hurt you?” 

“No, you didn’t. I’m fine, Regis. This is the corpse’s blood,” Geralt grimaced, sitting up. 

“Good.” 

“How are you feeling now that you aren’t about to rip into my throat?” 

Regis groaned. “Not well. And I’m still not sure about that. You really smell quite tasty.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Geralt joked, giving Regis’ good arm a squeeze. “Do you think you can turn into smoke and unlock the door?” 

“I can try. But Akoni will not let us go so easily. He wants me to kill you.” 

“We’ll have to convince him otherwise.” 

Regis, despite the haze of pain and bloodlust, found a smile tugging at his lips. “That is your plan? How have you survived this long being a witcher?” 

“My mentor, Vesemir, said I have stupidly good luck.” 

“I’d beg to differ. You’re stuck in a cage with me,” Regis retorted.

“I’m not stuck. You’re gonna get us out.” 

Regis didn’t reply. Instead, he allowed his molecules to drift apart and slow, focusing on keeping his body in the form of smoke. As the first tendril slipped through the bars he felt himself violently pushed backwards, reverting immediately into a solid form. 

“Fuck,” Regis said, rubbing at his head. “It’s no use. These bars are made from an alloy that will not let me pass through in my mist form. I should have known Akoni would bring up one of those damnable cages… he always was a sadist.” 

“So what do we do now?” Geralt asked, folding his arms. 

“We wait. He’ll eventually return. I just have to… control myself for the time being. I admit, this is quite difficult. Every fiber of my being is telling me to rip into your flesh—if it were any other human, they’d have been bled dry by now.” 

“…It must be a lot of pain.” 

“Excruciating. Something I’m trying very hard not to think about considering there is a hole in my chest and I’m missing an arm,” Regis scoffed. 

“I’ve got another plan,” Geralt said suddenly, removing the gauntlet from right hand. 

“Lovely. Let’s hear it.” 

“Your brother didn’t take my potion pouch. I’ve got a decoction of White Raffard. You can take some of my blood and I’ll just use the potion to heal. Worst case scenario, I know you’re strong enough to carry me out of here if I’m too weak to stand.” 

Regis abruptly stood, hissing at the jolt of pain his movement brought. “No. We’re not doing this, Geralt. I think you’ve lost your mind. I will kill you. The second a drop of your blood falls on my tongue—“ 

“You’ll just have to do your best. I don’t know when Akoni will be back. It’s better if you take some now, while you’re lucid, than if we wait too long and you lose control.” Geralt pulled a hunting knife from his boot, cutting a thin line into his wrist. “Come on, it’ll be fine.” 

Despite his words and bravado, Geralt could feel his heart thudding wildly in his chest. Regis was right. He didn’t have the best track record when it came to blood. And here he was, opening up a vein to him. Whatever self-preservation skills he was taught at Kaer Morhen had apparently disappeared the moment he ended up on the Path alone. 

Amusingly, he thought of what his friends might say at his funeral pyre. Vesemir would be the most upset, he thought, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Eskel and Lambert shed some tears. Lambert especially—he acted as if he didn’t care about the other wolf school witchers, but he had a soft heart that he hid underneath a prickly exterior. It was why they got along so well and clashed just as often. 

“You insufferable witcher,” Regis muttered, a brief flash of conflict apparent in his ashen features. He took in a deep breath, steadying himself as he kneeled beside Geralt. As gingerly as he could manage, Regis brought the witcher’s wrist to his mouth. He licked up the line of blood that dotted the shallow cut, shuddering at the first drops. 

It had felt like a century since he’d last been privy to delicious blood. The bandits he’d drank from the day before were nothing in comparison to this. The honey-sweet taste that was specific only to Geralt cloyed his senses until he dug his fangs into the skin and drank deeply. The witcher focused on calming himself, slipping almost into a meditative state as Regis drank. It was only when he felt his strength begin to leave him that real panic bubbled to the surface. 

“Regis, you’ve gotta stop now,” Geralt said, running his hand through the vampire’s hair. “If you take anymore, I won’t be able to walk.” 

As if his words were a spell within themselves, Regis obeyed, releasing his grip on the man. He lapped up the final drops of blood in apology, pulling away with a sigh. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” 

The witcher gave a small smile. “No problem.” Reaching into his pouch, Geralt retrieved the white vial and downed it in one go, closing his eyes. The White Raffard had the added side effect of being a mild sedative and tiredness—from the blood loss and the day’s events—robbed him of coherent thought as he felt himself drift off beside Regis. His head lolled against Regis’ good shoulder and he soon fell into a light slumber. 

“Geralt,” Regis muttered with endearment, looking at the sleeping man, “you are truly an awful witcher.” 

Some time passed until Akoni returned, reappearing in front of the cell with a grimace, having long since discarded his mask. He stood silently, taking in the scene of the dozing witcher and vampire, neither of which who were dead. Regis had begun the healing process, a new arm replacing the old and the hole in his chest nothing but a fading scar. At the sound of the jangling key, both men woke with confusion.

“Both of you leave, now, before I change my mind. If I see you again, Regis, I will take you to Tesham Mutna and you will not leave that cage until the dawn of the next century.” Akoni turned to Geralt with a venomous glare that would have turned a lesser man to stone. “I’m not quite sure why I’m letting you leave, but know this, human: you’ve damned your entire school. If I come across any witcher bearing a wolf pendant, I will not hesitate to kill them. This is the price of your transgression—you should have never meddled in the affairs of vampires.” 

“Brother, I—“ 

“Save it, Regis. I don’t want to see you again for at least a century. Or once that witcher is dead and in the ground,” he spat.

Solemnly, Regis followed Geralt out of the cell. The walk out of the cavern was silent, both processing the day’s events. When they reached the mouth of the cave, they realized it was already night. Fortunately, enough time had passed for the White Raffard to do its job, and Geralt was in very little pain, only a lingering dizziness that he was sure would go away with a hot meal and sleep. 

“…Let’s retire to the inn. We can go on your contract in the morning—we’ll just make sure we take a wide berth around the cave.” 

“Regis—“ 

“Not now, Geralt. I do not want to think about it.” 

Respecting his wishes, the witcher walked beside Regis, gaze fixed to the full moon before them. He could only hope that his friends never crossed paths with Akoni—and that he and Regis had suffered enough. Just once, he wanted a contract that didn’t end in his near death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **important: so i've decided to turn this fic from a platonic geralt & regis fic to a romantic one. i've updated tags as necessary. with the way i've plotted out this fic, i think their trajectory fits more of the enemies to friends to lovers trope then strictly enemies to friends. so i apologize for changing this on y'all midway thru, and i totally understand if this isn't ur cup of tea, but regardless, i appreciate all the kind comments and kudos so far~ 
> 
> if you have any questions or thoughts, feel free to let me know! otherwise, i hope you're enjoying the fic (and possibly enjoying that this fic will now feature geralt/regis romantic fluff) :D


	7. A Debt Repaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> regis broods, geralt gets thrown against a tree, and nothing (as per usual) goes as planned.

“This village is strange,” Regis remarked as they passed the threshold of the inn, still covered head-to-toe in blood. 

“Why? Because no one’s batting an eye at the fact that we look like we got into a romp with a slyzard?” Geralt replied, sarcasm heavy upon his tongue. 

The vampire huffed. “Surely you must find this peculiar. Why, if I so much as walked into a village with a drop of blood on my chin, someone would end up yelling monster.” 

The witcher shrugged. Perhaps the townsfolk had seen stranger. All of Toussaint felt as if it were some never-ending dream. He wasn’t going to complain if no one decided to drive them off. He was so used to being treated poorly, being cheated out of coin and cursed and spit at. Francollarts was a pleasant change. He didn’t want to be so jaded that he started to question people’s kindness without reason. 

At their haggard appearance, the innkeep rushed to prepare them both a meal, this time pulling out more typical tavern fare: roasted chicken legs and two mugs of ale. 

“I heard from Monsieur de Durand that you were tasked to take care of those awful carnivorous plant monsters. Archespores, if I recall correctly? Did they do this to you sirs?” 

“I wish,” Geralt started, taking a swig of his ale. “No, there are other awful creatures in the woods. It’d be best if no one strayed too close to the outskirts.” 

“I share the same sentiment,” Regis said, eating in a careful manner as to not expose his fangs, “though skilled in combat as we are, we were lucky to come out of the confrontation alive.” 

The innkeep’s mouth formed an O, worry knitting between her brows. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll write a letter to put on the notice board. In the mean time, did you find your lodgings to your liking?” 

“It’s fine.” 

Regis grinned. “As Geralt said, the room is good. No mites, fleas, or termites. Quite the sturdy bed, too…” 

Geralt choked on his ale, sloshing some of its contents onto the tabletop in his surprise. 

If anything about the comment and the witcher’s subsequent panic startled the innkeep, she did not show it. She busied herself by checking the wine glasses for dust with a cloth, a soft smile upon her features. 

“Have you two known each other long? It’s quite rare to see a witcher traveling with another person.” 

Geralt shook his head. “No, we’ve only been acquainted a short while.” 

“I think you’re selling our relationship short, Geralt. We both know a great deal about each other.” 

“That may be true, but—“ 

“Time doesn’t dictate closeness. I think we’ve experienced much together. Enough to make us close acquaintances, at the very least.” 

The innkeep laughed. “I must agree with you, sir. Many travelers pass through my inn, but none as chatty and argumentative as you two. You remind me of an old married couple.” 

“Well, one of us is ancient,” Geralt muttered under his breath to where only Regis could hear him. 

The vampire, to his credit, merely snorted into his mug, giving a tight-lipped smile. 

After finishing their meals, they retired to their room. The routine from the previous night was continued, with Geralt using the washroom first. Regis sat on the old wicker chair in the corner, pulling out one of the books he brought with him, and began to read. Or, rather, he attempted to. 

The day’s events continued to plague his thoughts, poking at his weak points with virulent relish. He never wanted to see Akoni again. He didn’t want to see his destruction first-hand. At least he could have clung to the happier memories of his youth. But there was no doubt about it: Akoni was not the man he called brother. He was every bit the monster that was depicted in old wives’ tales and peasant gossip. 

Some part of Regis worried that he too would become as callous and cruel—that he was on a path to ruin just as his brother. If he hadn’t met Geralt… what would he have become? 

“Regis… I need some help,” Geralt suddenly called from the washroom. 

Startled, but pleased at the distraction, Regis tucked his book away and approached the door. “Yes?” 

Geralt was perched uncomfortably on an overturned bucket, using it as a makeshift stool. A spool of bandages rested firmly in his left hand, remnants of past attempts at bandaging the bite on his right wrist strewn about the floor. The towel around his hips slipped dangerously past his navel and it took Regis some effort to keep his gaze fixed on Geralt’s face. 

The witcher gave a sheepish grin. “My hands are still a bit unsteady from the blood loss. I can’t seem to get the bandages secured in place.” 

Regis gave a cocky grin in return. “Lucky for you, you’ve got an aspiring barber-surgeon on your side.”

Geralt snorted. “How could you even be a barber? You don’t appear in mirrors.” 

“I’d be giving haircuts to vampires, not humans.” 

The witcher chuckled. “Of course.” 

A comfortable silence ensued as Regis kneeled beside Geralt, dutifully wrapping the bandages around the already-healing bite. He never cared much for healing others, especially since vampires were fairly quick at regenerating, but he couldn’t deny the swell of pride he felt in being able to help Geralt. He felt needed. Liked. By a witcher no less. Surely that was some sort of feat? 

“How are you doing, Regis?” 

Regis rose quickly, pulling away as if he’d been burned. “I’m just fine,” he quipped, tone curt. It was bad enough that his thoughts kept straying to his brother when he was unoccupied; he didn’t need the witcher prodding at things he’d rather not discuss. 

Geralt’s stubbornness continued. “That sounds like bullshit to me.” 

“Don’t act like you know anything about me, witcher,” Regis snapped, his tiredness kindling the flames of his temper. The small washroom was suffocating—it felt as if the walls were swaying, distorting from wood to metal, as if he were trapped in that wrought-iron cage yet again. The sensation of being trapped, wounded, pinned in place like some wiggling imago brought about another wave of vertigo and with it, a burning self-hatred for his own weakness. 

So lost in his thoughts, Regis did not realize that the Geralt had approached, a firm hand encircling his wrist. “Regis, breathe. It’s alright.” 

The vampire uncurled his fingers, letting the blood from his pierced palms drip onto the floor. In moments, the wounds healed, leaving only the bright red stain—the only ghost of his pain. 

“I… apologize. I really am not myself.” 

“Understandably. Your brother eviscerated you, you’ve got a witcher for a traveling companion, and I’m keeping you from your nightly blood-guzzling contests.” Geralt cracked a small smile, moving his hand so it rested comfortingly on the vampire’s shoulder. 

Regis smiled back, leaning unconsciously into the touch. Some of his usual teasing lilt returned to his voice. “You’ve experienced much as well. Since meeting me, you’ve crossed paths with two other higher vampires, have been bitten three times—twice by me, mind you—and you’ve made no coin. At all.” 

“I guess we both deserve some rest after everything we’ve gone through,” Geralt said, squeezing Regis’ shoulder before padding to the bedroom. “Take a hot bath. We’ll deal with the archespore nest tomorrow morning and then we can take the rest of the day off.” 

Regis gave a hum of approval, preparing what he needed for his bath. 

As waves of steam filled the small washroom, the vampire felt himself relax into the warm water. He felt boneless, like he did when he was in mist form—and, for a moment, all his worries drifted away with the lull of the water. 

Truly, baths worked wonders. 

Stepping out of the wooden basin, Regis dried off and changed into his sleeping attire, feeling much better than he did when he first entered the washroom. 

“You’ve completely healed,” Geralt said, a hint of awe in his voice when Regis returned to the bedroom. The witcher had seen Regis’ arm grow back, but where there was once fading scar tissue at the center of his chest, was now unmarred pale skin. He couldn’t take his eyes away—even with his potions and brews, Geralt was littered in scars. Shifting so that he laid on his side, propping his head up on one palm, the witcher continued to stare. Unabashedly. 

“Vampires are quite resilient creatures. We heal almost instantaneously—well, after a certain age, that is,” the vampire supplied. With the witcher’s gaze fixed upon him so intensely, he felt strangely self-conscious. “If my brother were to suffer the same wound, his skin would have stitched itself together before I even had the chance to pull away,” he rambled, rushing to snuff out the candles even though he knew Geralt could do so with a snap of his fingers. 

Geralt quirked a brow. “Oh, so you’re not as old and powerful as you pretend to be, huh?” 

“T-that’s not entirely true,“ the vampire spluttered. “I could still kill you without breaking a sweat, age notwithstanding.”

“Whatever you say, Regis,” he drawled. “I’ll find out your true age someday.” 

“I hope to the gods you don’t…” Regis muttered, pulling the bed sheets over himself. “If you’re done hypothesizing my age—which is rude, might I add—then I’d like to get some sleep. It takes up a lot of energy to regenerate half a lung.” 

Geralt chuckled good-naturedly. “Good night, Regis.” 

“Good night, Geralt.” 

….

At dawn, the pair awoke and busied themselves with preparations for the day. 

Geralt coated his blade in cursed oil, noting that he would need to find an apothecary or herbalist soon to restock on ingredients. He dug into his potions pouch and took stock of what still remained. Not much, but he did have a vial of white honey and, fortunately, half a vial of golden oriole. 

Regis, whose coin purse was still heavy, opted to find new clothes. Along the way to the tailor, he also picked up Geralt’s repaired armor from the blacksmith. Inside the quaint clothing shop, the vampire found garments that suited him best: a white doublet and dark-patterned jerkin with snug breeches. On a whim, he picked up a long, black cloak that trailed past his knees. A stripe of gold trimmed the hood and ends, a gold chain and circular medallion acting as a clasp. 

The vampire pulled the hood up as he waited by the noticeboard for Geralt, the warm Toussaint sun fixed high in the cloudless sky. Regis closed his eyes and listened to the chatter of passing townsfolk, the sound of children splashing at the bank of the lake, the creaking of wicker chairs and the clacking of knitting needles, and felt something akin to peace. Quaint village life… perhaps in another life, in a time where he deserved such a respite, he would have settled down in a village like Francollarts and spent his time as a healer. He could imagine himself living on the outskirts in a yellow-roofed home, spending his free time reading on the porch and giving coin to the village children so they could buy sweets from the traveling merchants. He could see himself living a full life and then growing old, giving in to the gentle lull of time, and dying in a room full of people who loved and cared about him—people that he too loved and cared about. 

But that wasn’t—and never could be—his life. 

“Sir? You travel with the witcher, do you not?” 

Regis opened his eyes to stare at the young man curiously. He was a farmhand by the looks of it, skin warmed by the Toussaint sun, clothes covered in dirt and hay. There was a frantic look in his eyes, face flushed red from exertion that made him appear as if he had been running to and fro the entire morning. 

The vampire gave a nod in return, folding his arms. “Do you have a problem?” 

“My… my only daughter, Margot. She’s gone missing. I went to wake her and she was… just gone.” The man ran his hands over his face. “Gods, this is my fault. If I hadn’t told her all those stories…” He trailed off again, looking close to tears. 

“Please, speak frankly. Your daughter is missing. And you think the witcher and I are somehow involved?” 

“Y-yes. No. I-I’m not sure. Since she was but a babe, I’ve told her stories about monster hunters. Witchers. She loves them. Wanted to be one for as long as I can remember,” he paused, bringing a hand to his mouth, “no… don’t tell me. You’ve picked up a contract here, haven’t you?”

Before Regis could respond, he heard footsteps approaching from behind and the familiar telltale clinking of metal against metal. 

“I picked up most of what you said. So you think your daughter has gone to fight the archespores in the woods?” Geralt asked, standing beside Regis.

“Archespores? She’ll be torn apart! Gods, why?” The man crumpled to the ground, fingers loosely curled around Geralt’s boot. “Please, rescue her. She’s all I have.” 

“We’ll do all we can,” Regis interjected, giving Geralt a nod. 

Mounting their respective steeds, Geralt and Regis darted into the woods. Regis listened for any sounds out of the usual, but heard nothing. It was only when they were a handful of meters away from the archespore nest that he heard the barest of footsteps intermixed with the light crunch of leaves. 

The vampire pushed his mule to go faster, cursing loudly. Then, he heard a single scream. 

Entering the clearing, Geralt and Regis dismounted, momentarily stunned by what they saw. 

A young girl, no older than twelve years, had an iron sword in her grip. At the end of her blade was the remnant of a single archespore, speared expertly through the middle of its venomous maw. A strip of white cloth was tied snugly around her head, covering her eyes. 

“Move back, now!” Geralt roared as the ground beneath the girl shook. She rolled to the side, fingers pressed to the dirt underneath her as the second archespore sprung from the ground, spitting yellow venom into the air. Regis turned to smoke and reappeared beside the girl just in time to shield her. He hissed in pain as a few stray drops landed on his outstretched hands, burning his skin. 

Taking a swig of the golden oriole, Geralt felt his vision blur for but a moment, his mutations helping his body quickly absorb the concoction. Just as the archespore slithered forward, mouth agape, Geralt intervened, a burst of flames leaving his outstretched hand. Standing before the monster, the witcher swung his sword in a wide arc, making contact with its stem. 

An ear-splitting screech echoed in the forest, followed by a heavy thud. The archespore withered up, its body successfully severed in half. It was then that the third and final archespore made its appearance. It teleported from pod to pod, leaving Geralt no time to discern where it would next erupt, save for the subtle shaking of the ground. 

“From the left!” the girl cried, still shielded in Regis’ arms. 

Geralt rolled to the right just as the pod beside him erupted, scattering its toxins into the air. A few drops hissed against the metal of his armor—if not for the warning, the acid would have gushed across his face. Dodging another spray of acid, Geralt rolled onto his knees and, gripping the silver sword with both hands, sliced through the air with deadly precision and strength. The archespore cried out, flinging its body in a wild, desperate attempt to dislodge the sword from its flesh. Geralt tightened his grip on his sword, pushing forward until he no longer felt resistance. 

The archespore had ducked back into its pod, disappearing long enough for the witcher to catch his breath. He made sure to cast Quen, throwing a haphazard glance at Regis and the child. 

“Let me go! I can help!” the girl cried, pushing against Regis. Her sword clattered to the ground as the vampire did his best to calm her, fingers pressed to her shoulders. 

“Margot, is it? I do not doubt that for a second,” Regis started, “but we told your father that we’d do everything we could to keep you safe. Archespores are dangerous—“ 

“And weak to fire. A sword drenched in cursed oil helps too,” Margot said, struggling against Regis’ hold. “I’m twelve, not five. I can protect myself.” 

“Kid, where did you learn—“ Geralt was interrupted as the archespore pushed through the soil and attacked, knocking the witcher into the air. He landed a few meters away, back hitting a nearby oak hard enough to take the breath out of him. 

“Geralt!’ Regis called out, inwardly cursing. He was otherwise sidelined for the battle, desperately trying to keep Margot from wiggling out of his grasp as the witcher was thrown around like a rag doll. 

Pushing up on his hands and knees, Geralt rose shakily to his feet, thankful that his shield had taken the brunt of the damage. A dull ache, however, throbbed in his lower back where his armor had met wood, causing his steps to falter slightly. 

“I fucking hate archespores,” the witcher muttered, tightening his grip on his sword as the archespore burst forth from the pod at his feet. Taking a quick sidestep back, Geralt used Aard, sending a gust of wind in the archespore’s direction. The monster was stunned momentarily, allowing the witcher to slide forward, using his momentum to cleave the beast in half. 

Like the second archespore, the second it was bisected, it withered and died, letting out a final screech that echoed throughout the clearing. Returning his sword to its sheath, Geralt reached into his potions pouch for a vial of white honey. He gulped it down in one swig, letting the sweet mixture of honeysuckle and dwarven spirit do its job. He’d been careless as of late, drinking potion after potion without any wait time. Though his toxicity wasn’t to the point where his veins became black from poison and bulged, it was a preemptive measure. With his luck as of late, he’d end up facing a pack of lower vampires—or higher vampires, if his own time with Regis was any indication. 

“Are you alright, Mister Witcher?” Margot asked, finally freeing herself from Regis’ hold. The vampire sighed, but watched the girl with a critical eye. 

“It’s just as I thought,” he said to himself, a series of questions machinating in his brain. It was only politeness that kept him from blurting out, what he assumed, to be completely obvious. 

“Where are you?” Margot asked, hands reaching out at the witcher’s silence. 

“Here,” the witcher replied, taking a seat on an overturned log. He pressed the metal of his gauntlets together, eliciting a sharp twang that the child followed easily. 

She patted at his knee, giving a wide grin. “Are you truly a witcher? What do you look like? Do you have cat eyes?” 

The excitement in her tone roused a light chuckle from Geralt. He smoothed the tangles of dark hair from her forehead, biting his cheek as to keep himself from grinning as the girl puffed out her cheeks. “I am a witcher. My name’s Geralt. Regis,” he motioned for the vampire to approach, “why don’t you tell her what I look like? Just so she knows I’m not making anything up.” 

“Certainly,” the man replied, moving so he sat on the opposite side of the child. “Before I answer, I do have a question for you, Margot. Why do you wear a blindfold?” 

“Oh, this?” She tugged at the white cloth, letting it fall to her neck. Her eyes, a warm brown, showed no abnormalities other than a slight shaking as she fixed her gaze forward. “As you might’ve guessed, I’m blind. I can still see faint outlines and intense light, though. On bright days like this, I get headaches if I don’t have something covering my eyes.” 

“Interesting. Thank you for telling me,” Regis replied, clearing his throat before continuing. “Now as for Geralt’s appearance…” he trailed, hesitance briefly painting his features. 

“Yes, Regis? We’re waiting,” the witcher drawled. 

“I was thinking of how I could describe your appearance without scaring the child,” Regis retorted, giving a smug smile. 

“Once again, I’m barely a child—I’m twelve!” 

“Yes, yes, my apologies, Margot,” Regis amended, turning his gaze to the witcher. “Geralt is a man I’d guess to be in his early to mid twenties. He’s bulkier than I am, though still lean enough to fit snugly into his light armor. He has long silver hair that he keeps up in a ponytail—and just between you and me, Margot, he’s in dire need of a haircut.”

The girl giggled while Geralt glared. 

Regis continued on unperturbed. “He has cat eyes, as you predicted, with bright gold irises. He’s usually frowning which makes him look both older and scarier than he truly is. Hmm… what else?” 

“Wait, it’s your turn, Geralt! Tell me what Regis looks like,” Margot said, patting the witcher’s shoulder. 

“Alright,” he started, “Well, Regis is rather lithe, but a bit shorter than me. He’s got black hair that touches his shoulders and curls at the ends. He probably needs a haircut too—don’t make that face, Regis. I’m kidding, unlike you—and he’s as pale as a ghost. He’s got dark eyes and two moles on his right cheek. Oh, and he insists on dressing up despite our line of work. Speaking of which, nice fancy cloak, Regis.” 

“It’s to keep me from overheating—the Toussaint sun is near unbearable,” the vampire replied, waving a hand. 

“You two are funny. Are you going to be in Francollarts long?” Margot asked.  


“…It’s unlikely. I’m sure you’ve heard that witchers never stay in one place too long.” 

At seeing her downcast expression, Regis clasped a hand at Margot’s shoulder. “Now, now, it’s no time for sadness. Your father is worried sick. Come, let’s return to the village.” 

…

Geralt took the coin from Monsieur de Durand with thanks, pocketing the drawstring pouch. 

“Master Witcher and Sir Regis, a moment, please?” Margot’s father ran up to them, a basket of assorted fruits in his grasp. “It’s not much, I know, but—“ 

Regis held up a hand. “You do not need to explain nor apologize. Your gift is more than enough.” 

“It’s not. You saved my daughter’s life and fulfilled a lifelong wish—she’s already telling her friends all about the white-haired witcher and his dark-haired companion. Which is why we were hoping you could stay in Francollarts for one more night.” 

“For what reason?” Geralt asked. 

As if summoned from thin air, a familiar laugh flittered in the breeze as both men felt a hand at their shoulders. “Why, the whole village is planning to throw a feast in your honor!” 

Turning, they saw the innkeep, a wide and mischievous grin spread across her face. 

“That’s very kind of you all, but—“ 

Geralt was interrupted as the innkeep shushed him by covering his mouth with her hand. “I won’t take no for an answer, Master Witcher. You will be attending this feast—along with you, Sir Regis. We rarely get visitors and we will not be having you leave without a proper send-off. Not after everything you’ve done for us and our sweet Margot.” 

Geralt and Regis shared a glance. 

One more day in Francollarts couldn’t hurt. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are so sweet, u know that?? thank u for indulging me w/ comments as they are lovely motivators for this fic. hope ur enjoying how geralt and regis' relationship is slowly developing! expect more light-hearted content in the next chapter w/ the feast as well as set-up for the next arc of the fic, hehehe~ ;3c
> 
> also, in regards to margot, i am a sighted person with very little experience regarding those who are blind. all the info i do have comes mainly from the internet so if something is glaringly wrong or obtuse, please let me know. for the sake of the fic, i made it so margot is able to fight using her sense of hearing and touch, which is why she was able to aid geralt while he was fighting. anyway, that's about it! xoxoxo


	8. Blood & Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys play gwent, fake a contract, and attend the banquet—all seems well until, suddenly, it isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter include animal death (one scene), mentions of addiction, and canon-typical descriptions of blood & gore. 
> 
> also p.s. sorry for how long this took, but on the plus side, it’s 7k worth of words, so enjoy!!

“How have you never played Gwent?” the witcher asked, a brief look of incredulousness overtaking his features. “Wait, let me guess, higher vampires only play chess?” Geralt leaned back comfortably in his chair, taking a sip from his tankard, eyes flickering across the quiet room. 

The tavern on the first floor of the inn was unusually empty for a mid afternoon—no doubt due to the town’s combined effort to throw a celebratory feast. Warm light from goat horn sconces illuminated the mess hall of benches and wooden tables. Geralt and Regis sat by the warmth of the fireplace, its orange glow softening the witcher’s features while sharpening the vampire’s. 

There was a sort of natural aristocratic shape to Regis’ profile that the fire highlighted, his high cheekbones, strong features, and onyx eyes begetting otherness in the same manner that Geralt’s cat eyes did. He looked out of place in a village, as if he were instead a traveling noble who had taken refuge at the inn, content to spend the day pretending he was just like the common folk. 

And Regis was pretending, to some effect, that he was normal. Human. But the witcher had spent enough time with the man to see the nonhuman traits he tried to hide: his pointed nails that clutched the stem of the wine glass, the barest glimpse of his teeth which gleamed white and dangerous from behind his thin lips, the reflective layer of tissue in his eyes that Geralt had seen glow in the pitch-black darkness of their room, and the man’s lack of shadow, as if Regis wasn’t really there at all. 

It was in his nature to observe, to collect information and store it—knowledge was the true currency of witchers in a world where a single misstep could lead to death. The difficulty of his current observations was determining whether the behavior displayed was inherently vampiric or another Regis-ism that Geralt was slowly growing accustomed to, like his damn stubbornness and inability to stop talking for even a moment. 

“I only had the opportunity to play chess—vampirism notwithstanding. Come,” Regis patted the empty space on the wooden table before him, “let’s stop wasting time and play. You’re not getting any younger.” 

“Fine. I’m not gonna go easy on you just because you’ve never played.” 

Dutifully, Geralt shuffled the decks, giving the vampire his extra Monster deck. After a brief explanation of the game, to which Regis had a plethora of questions and Geralt, out of necessity, shushed the man with a wag of his finger, set the game into motion, pulling a coin from his pocket. 

“Heads,” Regis called, watching the gold coin flip in the air. It clanged onto the wooden bench top, displaying the duchess’ head. 

Geralt swiped the coin from the table and stuffed it back into his coin purse. “I prefer going second, anyway.” 

On the first match, Geralt folded early, letting Regis win. The vampire raised a brow. “Some sort of strategy, I assume?” 

“Don’t think too hard—just play.” 

The next round went to the witcher all too easily, with Regis folding when he realized he could not match Geralt’s amount of points and still have enough cards to have a chance at winning the final round. 

“Wanna make this interesting?” Geralt leaned forward, the flush of alcohol warming his features. He gave a sly grin, one that Regis hadn’t seen before, and for a moment, the vampire wondered if this was what the witcher was like completely unguarded. It was a startlingly open countenance for a man who otherwise approached socializing with micro-expressions and, despite himself, Regis found the moment solidifying in his belief that, yes, Geralt could actually be endearing. At times. 

“Oh, in what way?” 

“Let’s make a bet. If I win, you’ve gotta do something for me.” 

Regis laughed. “That’s rather vague, witcher. Why would I agree to this when you are obviously the more experienced Gwent player?” 

“Because you like taking risks. Because you can ask me to do anything if you win. Because it’ll make things more fun,” Geralt replied, lazily listing off the reasons on his fingers. The alcohol had made his speech looser, less curt and monotone. The heavy Rivian lilt Regis had grown fond of slipped into something else between syllables and the vampire found himself grinning, storing the information for later. 

“Fair enough. I agree to your terms.” Regis’ grin turned devilish. “Oh Geralt, I don’t think you’ve realized how badly you’ve erred, making bets with a vampire…” 

...

“We’ve got at least an hour before festivities are in full swing. Plenty of time, in my opinion,” the witcher reasoned, shutting the door to their room and locking it. He no longer seemed the least bit inebriated, his body having long since metabolized the alcohol. There was only a light dusting of pink upon his cheeks, the blood pooling deliciously under his skin, which revealed he’d even been drinking at all that afternoon. 

Regis wondered if Geralt’s behavior had all been an act. Interestingly enough, he wasn’t the least bit upset with the possibility. If he had been duped, it just meant that the witcher was yet again surprising him with his wide breath of skills—like somehow tricking a vampire into doing gods know what. 

At the sound of the lock clicking, the vampire’s once feigned sour expression turned to genuine confusion. The rational part of his brain knew that there was likely a logical reason behind the witcher’s odd behavior—but his immediate speculation hinged upon much more debase desires. Which Regis was not entirely against. It was impossible not to notice Geralt’s attractiveness. 

Fortunately for the vampire, his words only came out mildly strained. “What exactly do you want from me, Geralt?” 

Though it was said in the context of the bet, a small part of himself wanted a general answer. What did the witcher want from him? Why did he continue to show kindness again and again even when Regis did not deserve it? What was his motive? 

A sudden bout of almost boyish sheepishness, something that made Geralt look as young as he truly was, accompanied his movements, right hand coming up to rub at the nape of his neck. “Ah, actually…” he trailed, amber eyes looking everywhere but at the vampire before him. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?” Regis teased, no real malice behind his words. Instead, he drank up the picture of the uncertain witcher, knowing full well he may never see this look upon his face ever again. 

Geralt sighed, shifting his weight so that he leaned on the wooden bedpost. He looked as close to nervousness as a man of his stature could ever be, fists clenching and unclenching unconsciously at his sides. “I’d like you to strip—“ 

“Excuse me?” the vampire, mid-sip, spluttered, flecks of wine escaping his mouth. He’d brought the red wine up with him in the hopes of curbing his thirst, as if he could pretend it was blood and not alcohol, but the illusion was shattered as the drops ran pink and near translucent against his hand. 

“Let me finish. I’d like you to strip and turn into that form. The one you turned into while in the cage.” Geralt, this time, sought the vampire’s gaze before continuing. “I know we made a bet, but if it makes you uncomfortable, or if it’s too soon, then—“ 

“It’s fine,” Regis interrupted again, oblivious to the slight twitch at the witcher’s temple. “And here I was, thinking you were going to ask for a more… intimate favor. Though, I must admit, I am curious for your reasoning behind it. And why I must be unclothed for this task.” 

“It’s for my notes,” Geralt replied a beat too quickly. “I’ve been taking notes on higher vampires from what I’ve seen of you and your other less friendly companions and—“ 

“You’ve been keeping a journal on me? I’m touched.” 

“Regis, that’s enough. If you interrupt me one more time I’m going to change my reward to having you shut up for tbe rest of the day.” When the vampire opened his mouth, Geralt raised a finger, silencing him. “No, not another word.” 

At this, Regis huffed and crossed his arms, but did, in fact, keep his thoughts and opinions to himself. 

“Now, listen. I need as much information on higher vampires as you’re willing to give. That other form of yours is dangerous and is what I assume to be the shape your species takes when in battle. The more I learn the better chance I have of staying alive if I end up in a position where I need to defend myself.” 

An unsaid _against you_ , hung in the silence between them. 

Instead of responding with words as he was apt to do, Regis began to unbutton his patterned jerkin. It was the least he could do—he’d put the witcher through enough close calls already. Though he did not like the way his mind grew hazy when in his more bestial form, he couldn’t deny the merits of letting Geralt take notes and observations. Mild discomfort was fine, so long as the witcher did not do anything to set off his instincts to kill and maim. 

Once disrobed to his breeches, Regis nodded, signaling to Geralt what would occur next. Taking a deep breath, Regis sought for a shard of anger, something he could use as an anchor. He needed it to be the sort of anger that simmered, that could be contained and controlled. He thought of his old companions, of their disrespect for life, and the image of a certain vampire that had ratted him out to his own brother flashed in his mind. 

Oh, thinking about Ezehiel would do nicely. 

The shift was minute—different from going incorporeal. When becoming smoke, Regis sought to lose himself, to become a collection of fast-moving molecules that could glide through the air. In his midway form, his mental faculties were somewhat fogged while his vampiric senses were heightened, awash with stimuli. He could practically taste Geralt’s blood in the air, the honey-sweet scent enticingly beckoning him from blue veins. He could hear the witcher’s heartbeat, slow and steady, no change in rhythm despite being in a locked room with a monster. There was no fear in his eyes even as he approached, gaze curious and unguarded. 

Regis’ bestial side rumbled in contentment. This wasn’t prey or predator—this was Geralt. There was no danger here. At that, his claws detracted, becoming half of their usual length. Still lethal, but not long enough to scrape against the floor. 

“Huh, I didn’t notice before, but your ears grow pointed, like an elf’s. Maybe it helps you hear better?” the witcher mused, tucking back a lock of his own hair as he peered unabashedly at the vampire’s face. 

Regis gave a nod of acknowledgement, hyper-aware of Geralt’s closeness. He fought to remain as still as possible even though there was a small, darker part of himself that urged him to simply lift his claws and gut the witcher. He had never been in this form and not spilled blood. 

“Hmm, your skin looks different too. You’ve got these…” Geralt paused, trying to find the right word, one hand thrown up in the air. “Dark freckles.” 

The grin Regis gave in return probably looked near feral, but the witcher didn’t seem fazed. He continued to jot notes in his journal, looking up briefly in between strokes of his pen, features relaxed. Wordlessly, he noted that Regis’ vampiric teeth had changed, the traditional set of fangs replaced by a set of teeth that lent itself even better to exsanguination. Teeth that were the splitting image of a bat’s own set. He had seen and felt the vampire’s regular teeth… but in this form? One bite would be lethal regardless of where the fangs tore into. 

If he were not a witcher, Geralt would have shuddered at the mental image of Regis’ teeth breaking through his flesh, digging into his carotid in search of the warm spray of blood. Instead, he decided to focus on anatomy that was less likely to coax such an image. “Let’s see… your eyes have changed. Black sclera, red irises. Doubt it has any biological benefit, but it’s certainly startling.” 

“All the better to hypnotize my prey,” Regis said, speaking carefully as to keep his sharp teeth from puncturing his own lips. 

Geralt scoffed. “Sure. Like any normal peasant wouldn’t piss themself at the sight of you. There’s no need for hypnotism when you’ve got the strength and speed of a monster.” 

Regis only nodded in return. It was the truth, after all. 

Content with his current notes on the change in the vampire’s face, Geralt’s gaze traveled down, stopping at Regis’ chest. Where Geralt was made of sinewy muscle and scars, Regis was leaner and lacking of blemishes. His true strength was hidden in a convincingly slender form, one that, at first glance, shouldn’t have been able to carry Geralt due to his larger frame and stature. But Regis was a vampire and the preternatural power that hid in every muscle, that could seize the witcher in an iron-like grip, was genuine. And terrifying. 

Geralt jotted down another line of notes before motioning to the vampire’s claws. “May I?” 

Regis lifted his right hand and sucked in a breath as the witcher pressed his own hand underneath the vampire’s lethal claws. He really was fearless—and a fool, Regis admonished in his head. Geralt wasn’t even wearing his gloves, moving the vampire’s index finger while observing the motion with a critical eye. 

“Heavy… and sharp. Yet flexible. Nothing like the claws of a werewolf. More dense. Like ivory. Are there any deleterious effects to being cut by them other than physical damage? Like a poison or toxin of some kind?” 

Regis gave his best attempt at a chuckle. It came out more bestial than he intended. “No. They are made for exsanguination and death. We do not need any extra help subduing our prey.” 

Just as Geralt went to tuck away his journal, leaving Regis to return to his more humanoid form and redress, there was a sudden caw of a raven and the beat of wings against the window. The vampire, fiddling with the last few buttons of his jerkin, languidly crossed the room to throw open the window, allowing the bird inside.

“Hello there, friend. What do you have for me?” Regis presented his palm, allowing the raven to hover over the man’s hand and drop the rolled-up parchment. “Good girl. Thank you.” He fetched his satchel and opened up one of the compartments to reveal a vial full of birdseed. The vampire allowed the raven to eat from his hand, a small smile gracing his features. 

Geralt caught himself smiling at the interaction unconsciously. “So, good news?” 

Regis turned to the witcher. “Yes. You remember the child Adriel, don’t you? He’s been under the care of that retired professor for about a week now and my raven has told me that he is already visibly gaining weight. He is in good spirits and is enjoying life. It appears that his hardships are finally over.” 

“I’m glad.” Geralt motioned to the paper. “What’s that?” 

“I don’t know. Let’s see…” Untying the red ribbon, Regis let out a loud laugh, handing the paper to Geralt. 

The witcher sighed, eyes softening briefly. “Do I really look like that?” 

Sure enough, young Adriel had taken it upon himself to draw a rather colorful depiction of the witcher. It was actually endearing how he had attempted to emphasize Geralt’s more inhuman-like features, as if he were trying to draw the man with accuracy and precision. Underneath the drawing, the boy had scrawled a few words: 

_I hope you’re feeling better, Mister Witcher!  
Also, like I said before, please don’t hurt Mister Regis. He’s different, like you, but not bad!_

“He has a good eye for detail. Look, he even remembered to draw both of your swords. And your wolf medallion. Even your grumpy expression is there, drawn in brown pastel. Quite a feat for a child’s depiction of you on a get-well letter. Little Adriel could be a famous artist in a few years, I’m sure of it.” 

Geralt snorted. “Fair enough. I can’t wait till he draws you. I hope he emphasizes your receding widow’s peak.” 

A knock at their door signaled that it was time for the raven to depart. She swooped up the items Regis had prepared for Adriel and flew out of the open window, gliding towards the setting sun. At the door, Regis greeted the innkeeper who let herself inside the room, face alight with excitement.

Absorbed in their conversation with the innkeeper, neither witcher nor vampire heard the muffled cry of Regis’ raven as an albino raven careened into her, causing the bird to spiral to the ground, hitting a boulder head-first with all the force of her untimely fall. The white raven swooped up the note and accompanying coin-pouch, its pink eyes reflecting the bloodied corpse of the dark-feathered raven. It gave a sharp caw before flapping its wings and taking off towards the direction of Beauclair. 

…

At the behest of the innkeeper, Regis and Geralt soon found themselves in the company of wide-eyed, curious children. While the last of the decorations and food were being prepared in the town square, the two men had been given an unusual task: babysitting. Out in the field adjacent from the town, vampire and witcher sat cross-legged in the middle of a circle of tots led by a familiar dark-haired child. 

“Margot, what exactly did you tell your friends about us?” Regis asked, slightly perturbed by the crooked grin that had spread across the young girl’s face. He knew that grin all too well; the child was plotting something. The vampire felt a small swell of pride at the thought. 

As if to answer Regis’ inquiry, the youngest child of the group, no older than four, took to crawling into the witcher’s lap. He seemed transfixed by Geralt’s long white hair, a chubby hand reaching out to tug at the strands that cascaded down his breastplate. 

With the same agility Geralt showed in battle, he scooped up the child, holding him at an arm’s length away. The sudden motion elicited a giggle from the blond-haired boy who kicked his feet playfully. 

Regis could see through Geralt’s veneer of sullenness in the way that he did not admonish the child, but rather sat the boy back onto the grass before tying his hair up. For a man supposedly devoid of emotion, he was becoming easier and easier for the vampire to read. Geralt’s eyes were gentle despite the grimace on his lips and he did not move the child when, ever stubbornly, the boy returned to climbing onto the witcher’s lap, fingers lacing inquisitively around the wolf-head medallion. 

“I told them the truth about witchers! About how Geralt valiantly vanquished the archespores!” 

“Valiant… haven’t been called that in awhile,” Geralt replied, now realizing his mistake in allowing the child to sit in his lap. It seemed that his tepid response was a warm invitation to the other three children, who, not used to unusual sights and unusual people, crowded the witcher excitedly. He crossed his arms and looked up towards the lazy white clouds above, studded gauntlets attracting the attention of most of the children who otherwise tugged at his unusual witcher gear. 

“Well, it’s true! I told them that you could defeat anything, even the greatest of all monsters!” 

Geralt immediately knew where the girl was going. “Kid, if you think I’ll just—“ 

As agile as a wraith, Margot was at Geralt’s side in an instance, finding his shoulder before bending down to whisper in his ear. When she pulled away, Regis saw that the witcher was sporting a sly grin for the second time, gaze fixed towards him. 

_Oh no,_ the vampire thought. _What have I gotten myself into now?_

It turned out that he’d gotten himself into one of the oddest situations of his life. 

Currently, Regis was pretending to be dead, hands folded against his chest as he remained in his midway form. The other children were too young to realize that the evil vampire they were crowded around was in fact Regis and since Geralt had forbid Margot from touching Regis’ body, she only assumed he had put on some disguise, complete with makeup and some sort of witcher magic to contort his features into that of a monster. After what amounted to a scavenger-hunt of fake clues that Margot had already managed to set up with the help of her father, Geralt had tracked the vampire into a deserted area of the woods and had a quick duel of sorts. Both men had slowed their attacks, allowing each other to feign hits easily, adding a fluid sort of grace to each of their movements. 

When Geralt would swing his sword in a horizontal arc, Regis would dip back, allowing the blade to skim over his head, a hair’s breadth away from slicing into skin. Likewise, Regis would rush forward with both hands extended, looking as if he’d cage the witcher against a tree, only for Geralt to use his momentum to roll out of the way and bring the sword arching towards the back of Regis’ knees. 

Eventually, a well-placed thrust made it appear as if Regis had been impaled by the silver sword and he crumpled to the ground in a dramatic manner befitting a man like himself. It made sense, considering most vampires did have a flare for the theatrics. 

Regis was ripped out of his musings as the weight of a child settled on his chest. The blond boy, despite his youth, appeared to be the bravest of the group, climbing triumphantly on top of the vampire with a giggle. 

The vampire’s nostrils flared at the scent of a warm body against him. A low rumble, unnoticed by the boy, swelled in his chest as he thought of the rush of blood against his tongue. He recalled drinking Geralt’s blood—the sweetness and tingle that only witcher blood could possess—and felt another ounce of his control slipping. It would be so easy to drain the child. He could do it in seconds. He had been the fastest at drinking a person dry out of his rag-tag group of plasma crowd vampires. 

Regis thought he could take a bite out of each child before Geralt even had the chance to unsheathe his sword. All he could think about was blood, of the calm that followed after, the warm lethargy that helped lull him into a peaceful slumber. 

Why did he think he could ever abstain from blood? It just wasn’t in his nature. 

Just as Regis was ready to spring up and smother the child in a final embrace, he felt the boy scramble off of him. He heard Geralt say something, but Regis’ bestial side paid it no heed. It took him sizeable effort to stay still as the children crowded the witcher on his walk back to the village, ready for the lesson portion of their staged contract, Margot eagerly pulling out one of her books on witchers for Geralt to read an excerpt from. 

With narrowed eyes, Regis allowed himself to disappear, turning to vapor to disappear into the forest. He did not return for some time, not until he felt his mental faculties were somewhat back in order. Unfortunately, the hunger remained—dulled by time, but throbbing in the way that demanded attention, like a piercing migraine. 

As the children returned to their respective parents when nightfall hit, abuzz with words praising Geralt, the two men began their stroll to the village square, where festivities were now in full swing. Though they were still a few meters away, they could see the rows of tables stacked high with plates of food. Goblets of wine were flowing freely and people were already beginning to dance. It was a tipsy, familial affair that reminded Geralt briefly of the last winter he spent at Kaer Morhen. He had only been on the Path for two years now and he still longed for the camaraderie and relaxation he felt when he returned to the Keep and saw his brothers in arms. 

“Geralt, I have something to confess.” 

The witcher stopped, looking around tentatively. There was no one within ear-shot at their place by the noticeboard. “What is it?” 

“I… I almost lost myself back there.” The vampire turned away, hiding his true distress from Geralt. “I knew I shouldn’t, that I didn’t truly want to do it… but for a moment, the urge to drink blood was strong. I thought of drinking from one of the children.” 

“You were fine with Adriel… what happened?” 

Regis shook his head. “The urge to drink comes in waves. I thought back to my time in that cage. I thought of your blood. The boy was standing on top of me and every fiber of my being was telling me to grab him and bite.” 

“Regis,” Geralt started, placing a hand on the vampire’s shoulder, “I don’t know how you feel. I don’t think I could ever understand completely what it’s like to have such a craving, but you didn’t give in. You proved that you’re more than a monster shuffling around in search of blood.” 

The vampire smiled sadly, turning around to face the witcher. “That may be true, but I do not feel as if I made a good decision. It feels like I am depriving myself. And I’ve never been good at controlling my impulses.” 

Geralt didn’t quite know how to respond. He settled on pushing the vampire towards the banquet. “Come on, let’s go to the party. It’ll do you some good to have something other than blood to think about.” 

…

It felt as if a stone had lodged itself in the witcher’s stomach. 

He hadn’t seen Regis in ages. Not after his quiet shuffle into the dark. He had assumed the man would come back—because this was their celebration and he appeared as happy and relaxed as he’d been since traveling with the witcher, content to flirt with the townsfolk and sip his wine elegantly, honeyed words flowing freely from his tongue. But then, like a man possessed, he suddenly excused himself from his circle of admirers and disappeared. He did not even look in Geralt’s direction, trudging off to gods know where, gait quick and hurried. 

If there was one thing he’d learned from his training, it was to trust his gut—especially if the supernatural were involved. After giving his apologies to a lovely blonde-haired maiden in the form of a parting kiss to her hand, Geralt left the town square, easily following the brick-laden path back to the inn despite the lack of torchlights. 

Focusing, he strained to hear anything out of the ordinary in the small town. He heard young lovers snickering in the brush nearby, the sound of someone poorly attempting to skip rocks against the lake’s surface, and then, a muffled cry. 

Geralt knew what was happening before he even made it to the deserted area behind the inn, empty wine barrels stacked underneath the wooden overhang. Regis had some poor townsman pinned against the barrels, one hand squeezing the man’s shoulder as the other tipped his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat. 

Though Geralt was silent in his approach, Regis stilled all the same. He turned his head to stare directly at the witcher, dark eyes glowing in the heavy dark. There was a brief moment of hesitation, a flickering of something that Geralt couldn’t quite place, before he dug his fangs into the townsman’s neck. 

“Regis,” the witcher hissed, darting to rip the vampire away from his meal. As he placed a gloved hand onto Regis’ shoulder, the man visibly bristled, releasing his grip on the hypnotized townsman with a snarl. No longer being held upright, the human slumped to the ground beside the barrels, blood dripping down his neck and onto his white tunic. 

“I hate you,” Regis growled, whipping around to glare at Geralt, blood dripping down his chin. “I hate you more than anyone else in this damnable world.” 

“Why? Because I’m keeping you from a fun life of exsanguinating innocent villagers? I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Regis, but I’m a witcher. It’s my job to kill monsters like you.” 

The vampire laughed bitterly. “You’re supposed to kill monsters like me? You’ve been doing a shit job at that, then. We’ve been traveling together for over a week and you haven’t once pointed your sword at me.” 

“It was my mistake, thinking you were anything other than a blood-drinking freak. I won’t make it again.” Geralt stepped forward, unsheathing his silver sword. Anger rolled off the witcher in waves. How could he have been so naïve to think that there was anything worth protecting in a monster like Regis? That there was anything remotely good in a man who had, only hours ago, confessed that he wanted to drink the blood of a child? 

Geralt tightened his grip on his sword. He knew deep in his marrow that more blood would be spilled. He only hoped it wouldn’t be his. 

In a sudden blur of motion, Regis stood in front of the witcher, a smug grin fixed upon his features. His tongue slipped out to trace the remaining blood that coated his lips, shuddering at the sweet taste. Once again, it wasn’t as good as Geralt’s magic-laced blood, but it was something that chased away the dryness in his throat all the same. 

“I apologize for leading you astray. But truly, you are much too easy to manipulate. It must be due to your youth. This world is cruel. It hasn’t broken you yet, Geralt, but it will and I’ll be there to see it.” 

“No, you definitely won’t be,” Geralt said, pointing his sword forward. 

To his surprise, the vampire moved so that the tip of the blade pressed against the center of his throat, scraping against his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. 

“Go on, then,” Regis leered. “Thrust it in.” 

Silently, the witcher regarded the vampire. Despite the anger bubbling inside him, he remained still. He was in no position to fight and win against Regis. He’d only be courting death. Logic, it seemed, won out in the end. With a grimace, Geralt pulled away, sheathing his sword. He ran a hand through his hair, gaze turning to the unconscious villager. In the silence, he could hear the man’s steady heartbeat; he was in no immediate danger, having only lost what Geralt assumed to be around two mouthfuls of blood, give or take. Still, a question was gnawing at him. 

“Why’d you pick him? Convenience? Or were you so far gone you’d have bled an infant?” 

“Would my reasoning truly change anything?” Regis stepped away, pulling himself back into the shadow of the wooden overhang. At Geralt’s pointed look, the vampire sighed, resting his head against the brick façade of the inn. “He’s no innocent villager. I caught him trying to lace a woman’s drink with some sort of silver powder.” 

The witcher absorbed his words with a mix of concern and surprise. “So some sense of twisted vigilantism motivated you?” 

“No., not quite. I just assumed a man that vile wouldn’t be missed.” 

Both men immediately stiffened at the sudden rush of footsteps, a hurried pace of bare feet that would have otherwise been silent if not for the witcher’s mutations and the vampire’s preternatural hearing. Regis wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, grimacing all the while. Geralt, unsure of whether the person was a threat or a concerned villager who had heard the struggle and subsequent hissing match, kept his arms crossed, but stood with his weight resting on his left leg, ready to fight if need be. 

A familiar blonde-haired woman darted from the façade of the inn, a silver dagger brandished in one hand. Geralt recognized her instantly—being the sweet-spoken woman he had talked with briefly at the feast. 

At the sight of the unconscious man, the woman bared her teeth. “I knew it was you, monster! You’ll pay for killing my sister!” 

Regis remained still as the blonde charged towards him, digging the blade into his gut with a cry. It slid in to the hilt, puncturing his intestines in a single stroke. 

The vampire winced, but did not attempt to defend himself. “I’m… sorry.” 

At his small admission, the girl stumbled back, wrenching the blade back. A bitter laugh bubbled from her throat. “That’s all you have to say to me? You took away the only person who mattered to me!” 

“Words cannot bring back the dead,” Regis reiterated, placing a hand over the slowly closing wound in his gut, letting the blood ebb against his fingertips, painting them crimson. 

The woman glared, tightening her grip on the dagger. This time, her hands did not shake as she charged forward again. “How dare you look at me with such a pitying expression! You caused this! I’ll cut you into pieces and let the birds eat your corpse!” 

Before the blade could meet flesh, Geralt sprung into action, grabbing the woman’s wrist. He applied pressure until she released the weapon with a hiss, anger twisting her features. 

“And you call yourself a witcher? How could you defend this monster? Let me go! Let me have my revenge!” 

Geralt shook his head, waving a hand in preparation for using Axii. “I’m sorry, but you can’t have it. Not like this.” 

Before the witcher could fully cast the sign, another women flitted onto the scene out of breath, hitching her long red skirt up with her hands as she traversed the sloping terrain. 

A pair of warm brown eyes ringed by crow’s feet lidded in sympathy at the sight of the enraged woman. The innkeeper pulled the young woman away and cupped her face. “Mirabelle, that’s enough. This is not what your sister would have wanted.” 

For a moment, Mirabelle stilled in the older woman’s arms, soothed by the gentle touch. The calm was fleeting and soon she was struggling against the innkeeper’s hold, thrashing about like a fish caught in a net. “Let me go! Let me kill this monster!” 

“There’s nothing you can do to him that would bring her back. Go home. There is no honor in unnecessary bloodshed. No evil is left unpunished, but it is not your job to act as executioner. Do not let revenge sully your heart.”

Mirabelle looked close to tears, eyes wet and shining. “How can I just let him go? He killed Mara—I saw her die in his arms! He did not show her mercy, so why must I?” 

“Because you are not a killer, Mirabelle. This cycle of violence will only leave you dead.” 

“I don’t care! I’d rather be dead! Give her back! Give Mara back to me!” The blonde ripped herself out of the innkeeper’s arms and threw herself at Regis, fists beating against his chest. He, once again, did nothing to block her attacks, letting her twist her fingers into his clothes before falling to her knees. A series of sobs wracked her frame as Regis stood above her, head bowed. 

“I wish you could have your revenge,” the vampire said. “If you could kill me I would not stop you. I do not know who I am anymore.” 

The woman looked up, sniffling. “What are you saying? Your words do not make any sense—you’re a monster. You can’t feel remorse!” 

Regis shook his head. “I feel many things. I am… not well. I haven’t been well in a very long time. It is only now that I can finally admit it. I did not need your sister’s blood. I did not need to kill her. But I did. And I enjoyed it.” 

Mirabelle reared back as if she had been physically hit. “You are sick! How can you say those words to me—“ 

“I’m saying them because you deserve the truth. Even if it hurts. Even if it makes you want to hunt me down. Though I cannot die by your hand,” he motioned towards Geralt, “I can be greatly incapacitated by this witcher. If I am to die, it will be by his hand. He is a good man; I know he stills his blade because he still sees something good in me—someone worthy of redemption. One day, he will no longer be able to turn a blind eye. Fate or circumstance will make him take action and strike at me. And I won’t resist when the time comes. I’ll meet his blade with a smile. This is all I can promise you, Mirabelle.” 

No one spoke for some time. Only the sound of the wind whistling through the dense canopy and the hum of crickets echoed in the clearing. 

Wiping off the last of her tears and dusting off her dress, Mirabelle rose to face Geralt, a stern expression upon her face. “I expect you to return here with his head on a platter, do you hear me?” 

The witcher nodded silently. 

Retrieving her dagger, the blonde returned the weapon to its sheath and departed, never once looking back. 

“What about the man you drank from?” Geralt asked, torn between the urge to simply leave the lecherous man out behind the inn or to have Regis finish the job. 

“He was under my influence while I fed. He’ll remember nothing. Leave him here.” Regis replied, gaze turning to the innkeeper. “Why did you intervene?” 

The woman ran a hand through her long brown locks, sighing deeply. “It was the right thing to do. You deserved another chance.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m old and tired, but I’m no fool. I’ve seen your eyes before, vampire. They are the same as mine. You are not as cruel as your actions paint you. We’ve all made mistakes—I’ve made mistakes that have cost numerous people their lives.” the innkeeper held up a hand, silencing Regis. “It is only by luck and force of will that I managed to rebuild myself and make a home here in Toussaint. I am not proud of who I was, but I am proud of who I am now. I hope, one day, you’ll feel the same.” 

The innkeeper pulled off her necklace, revealing an iridescent coin on a black cord. One side depicted a hand with prick marks on the fingertips and a bloody tear-shaped mark on the palm while the other side was blank. She pointed the coin towards the crescent moon with a soft smile. A kaleidoscope of vibrant colors arched across the silvery path of light, illuminating the sky. Then, as quick as it appeared, it dissipated, leaving only a fading trail of red that slithered back into the coin. 

Regis’ eyes widened, jaw slack in awe at the display of light. For a moment, he looked unburdened, a child-like sense of wonder overtaking his features that faded with the dissipation of the light. “That is a relic of my home world—how did you come to possess this?” 

“It is a long story for another time.” She slipped the black cord around the vampire’s neck. “Go with the witcher and learn to control yourself. For his sake, at least. I’m sure he’s struggling just as much as you, in his own way. And, if you happen upon another vampire who wears this coin around his neck, tell him that The Scarlet Cardinal sends her regards.” 

Regis gave a polite bow, dipping forward and closing his eyes. “I will.” 

“Did you know he was a vampire this entire time?” Geralt asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

The innkeeper winked. “The first night you boys arrived, I recognized that smile. The well-practiced, tight-lipped one as to hide your teeth. Though, Regis my dear, you must not be that old or are unaccustomed to mingling with humans.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“You sat down beside a row of candles. It was obvious that you didn’t cast a shadow.” 

Despite the events of the night, Geralt couldn’t help but crack a small grin. “I knew you weren’t that old. Nice try, Regis.”

The vampire sighed in return, but slowly, a smile also broke across his face. “Let’s go, you insufferable witcher.” 

As witcher and vampire made their preparations to leave Francollarts, it felt as if the once widening gap between them was slowly closing with each step they took. The tension, still palpable as they loaded their gear onto their respective mount, only solidified that their relationship had changed—for better or worse. 

No more demons, no more monsters. Just two broken men battling themselves. The thought left a sour taste in Geralt’s mouth. Regis did have multiple contracts out on him. It wouldn’t be the last time that a grief-stricken relative would recount his misdeeds and try to kill him. Eventually, the witcher had to make a choice. 

He just hoped he wouldn’t have to make it anytime soon. After all, he did feel closer to Regis now. He understood him better. Something even akin to sympathy fluttered briefly in his stomach. 

What did it feel like to crave blood? Would he have been able to curb such urges if Fate had chosen a different sort of path for him? He truly did not know. It was why, even with blood on his lips, Geralt was unable to strike Regis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all this chapter was so hard for me to write tbh. bloodthirsty!regis is always difficult for me to write in general because i’m so used to in-canon, charming, probably-nurses-injured-ravens-back-to-health regis—but i wanted to portray his blood drinking as an addiction as accurately as i could. 
> 
> also, i made a Spotify playlist for the fic which u can find here: https://open.spotify.com/user/luxmentis/playlist/4Xt69UwQfQZbaMkEoW34c6?si=it-41CRaSSiswHPLykkEMA or u can simply search 'of smoke and iron' 
> 
> it plays in chronological order, highlighting relationship milestones for the pair, so i guess it could be mild spoilers for later (much later) on in the fic if u listen to the whole thing as far as tone goes ^^; but yeah, lemme know if u enjoyed it <333


	9. Dreams & Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there’s a 3-week time skip, geralt & regis have a nice chat by a bonfire, and geralt has an interesting dream and sudden realization.

Though a happy and wine-drunk providence, Toussaint had its fair share of misfortunes. 

“It is a land built on blood,” Regis had explained, “violence begets violence.” 

And so it seemed. In three weeks, Geralt’s pockets were full of coin, while his body ached from the strain of battle. He had taken care of another archespore infestation (this time with Regis’ help, thankfully) and gotten the slight amusement of Regis lamenting the holes in his clothing from the acidic venom the monsters spat out. 

There was a pack of barghests that terrorized a well-worn merchant route. Once again, their flames licked at the witcher’s heels, but Regis seemed otherwise immune to the fire to Geralt’s surprise. When questioned, the vampire shrugged. “Only flames from a powerful source, like a mage, can truly harm me. These hellhounds are merely bothersome.” 

At some point, Geralt and Regis rode by a forgotten hamlet laid to waste by an infestation of kikimores. Though there was no contract, the witcher ultimately decided to take care of the pests. Once the colony of workers had been taken care of, Geralt set his eyes upon the queen. The monster spewed caustic venom in a moment where the witcher had gone to take a sip of swallow, causing his toxicity to skyrocket. Regis leapt into action then, slaying the kikimore and fetching Geralt his potions bag. 

“Dammit, I don’t have all the ingredients for White Honey,” Geralt had said, rising shakily to his feet. 

“Stay here. I’ll gather the ingredients. What herb am I looking for?” 

Though he wanted to protest, the witcher merely rested against the oak, breaths short and vapid. “Honeysuckle. Grows in barren ground. You’ll know it by its magenta flower and sweet scent.” 

The vampire nodded and disappeared, returning a few minutes later with an armful of honeysuckle. With the witcher’s instruction, he was able to make enough White Honey in the mortar that Geralt could take a few sips. 

“Thank you, Regis,” the witcher had said once the black veins faded away and he was well enough to stand unassisted. The vampire had only grinned cheekily, noting that as a scholar and researcher, it would be embarrassing if he could not do something as simple as mixing together a potion. 

Now, after all that toil, the pair had taken up residence on a hill that overlooked a pristine lake. Even further, the witcher could make out the shadow of the looming castle, a hulking mass illuminated by the silver light of the half moon. Beauclair was not far away. Regis looked pensive as he set his bedroll down on the opposite side of the campfire, dark eyes cast to the swirling flames. 

“Coin for your thoughts?” Geralt drawled, setting aside his journal for the time being. After the incident in Francollarts, there had been an attempt from both witcher and vampire to find a new rhythm, a new sense of normalcy that could allow them to journey together without stepping on each other’s morals. Because, frankly, Regis had broken one of the only two rules Geralt had set when they first started traveling together: no unnecessary biting or killing. 

He had technically been unnecessarily cruel already, Geralt recalled. When Regis had killed the final bandit on their way to Francollarts, the witcher hadn’t said much—mostly because he hadn’t gotten the chance after being poisoned and left at the vampire’s mercy. But it bothered Geralt, the way the man teetered upon the edge of kindness and cruelty, never knowing which act was likely to occur next. Uncertainty could lead to a witcher’s death.

Though, after their initial meeting, the vampire had never made Geralt the victim of such viciousness. No, Regis had been mischievous, teasing, and rather blunt at times, but never rude to him. Almost like he valued the witcher in his own mysterious way. 

With these thoughts (and the innkeeper’s words still fresh in their minds), Geralt had coaxed both an apology and a vow from the vampire to strive to do better. To be better, with no harsh threat of punishment looming over him. Likewise, Geralt had offered up one of his own internal battles: trying to keep his prejudices at bay when encountering sentient monsters. He still found himself internally referring to Regis as a monster when he knew that the man was more than that. Witcher training stressed the dangerousness of the unknown, of those capable of doing harm to a witcher, which amounted to a flimsy black-and-white separation of humans and monsters in which humans were always good and monsters were always bad. He’d never seen it that plainly as he’d run into his fair share of monstrous humans, but he’d never had to still his sword from slicing into a monster until now.

All in all, both men were leaning into their new dynamic, which meant that trust, above all else, had to be given. And what showed trust more than being open and honest about one’s thoughts and feelings? 

Geralt was stirred from his ponderings at the sight of Regis reaching into the flames barehanded to stoke the kindling. He resisted the urge to scribble down the information, still unsure of whether the immunity to fire was a common vampiric property or ability privy to Regis only. 

Regis settled back onto the bedroll with a sigh. “I’m fine, Geralt. It’s just a bit of melancholy, really.” 

“Over what?” 

Seeing the witcher’s determined look, the vampire relented, clasping his fingers in his lap. He stroked the skin of his hand with his opposite thumb in soothing circles, a habit that Geralt had noticed occurred whenever he spoke truthfully about himself. “It’s my brother’s birthday.” 

“I take it you were close before?” 

Regis smiled sadly. “We were inseparable. Despite our considerable gap in age, Akoni took me under his wing. Taught me about the arts and sciences. Told grand stories about our home world, a place I never knew. Who I am today was strongly influenced by him.”

“So I have him to thank for your handful of a personality, then?” Geralt joked.

“Yes, that amongst my other more… unsightly traits.” He need not be specific; Geralt knew he was talking of his addiction to blood. 

The pair lapsed into silence as Geralt peered up at the stars, feeling a tug of nostalgia. The last time he had been looking up at the night sky with Regis, they’d been strangers. Enemies. Now… Geralt felt like they were something akin to friends. Or as friendly as a witcher and a vampire could be, given the circumstances. Regardless, he felt the stirrings of sympathy in his gut. He wanted to console Regis, somehow. 

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to reconcile?” Geralt started, shifting so he sat parallel to Regis, copying his body language subconsciously. “I don’t know much about your culture, but having your brother shove his arm through your chest seems difficult to forgive.” 

“If it were anyone else, I’d say no. But he did not aim to kill me. As Champion, he is duty-bound to dole out punishment. That is all it was.” Regis gave a bitter chuckle. “Him throwing you into the cage with me was almost an apology. He always did his best to take care of me—up until he couldn’t any longer.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Regis sighed. “Being recognized by an Unseen Elder is the highest honor a vampire could be bestowed. Akoni was thrilled to be summoned. He knew he’d been on his best behavior so he correctly inferred that he was being called for a purpose. And so he became Champion… knowing full well that he’d never be able to return to the manor. That he could no longer spend time with me. That I would be left alone to fend for myself at a vulnerable age.” 

“You were abandoned,” the witcher said, realization hitting him with a sudden force. 

“It is very difficult to turn down such a gift. I am not upset that he chose to be the Champion. I am upset that the role changed him. But even that is expected when one is given supreme jurisdiction over their peers.” 

“Damn… vampire politics sound tiring. And that’s coming from someone who hates human politics.” 

“What of you? As a witcher, how is your relationship with others from your school?” Regis asked, changing the subject as he reached into his satchel, revealing an unopened bottle of chardonnay. “Took this before we left Francollarts. There didn’t seem to be a proper moment of respite until now to fully indulge in a drink.” 

Geralt snorted. “So we’re really gonna just drink and talk about our feelings?” 

“Yes,” Regis replied, uncorking the bottle. “Given that you insist on using your mutations as a crutch for genuine emotional connection, perhaps a drink will help you loosen your inhibitions.” 

“Yeah, yeah, just hand me the bottle, vampire…” Geralt drawled, leaning forward to accept the drink. After taking a swig, the witcher passed the bottle back. “When are we going to get to try your mandrake brew?”

“Patience, Geralt. You cannot rush a perfect mandrake blend. We should search the surrounding forest for ingredients tomorrow—both for your potions and for my own interests in distilling.” 

The witcher hummed in agreement, allowing himself to move his hands closer to the fire, the night chill nipping through his tunic. He looked deeply into the flames. “The other wolf school witchers are my brothers, plain and simple. We’ve been through hell together, seen things that would make any normal person lose all faith in humanity, and are always treading the line between human and monster.” 

Regis handed the bottle to Geralt before leaning back on his palms, legs splayed onto the grass. He looked comfortable, more human than usual with his face highlighted by the flickering light of the bonfire. “Hmm, that’s good and all, but be more personable. Tell me about these mysterious witchers. Are they all as emotionally distant as you?” 

“Not in the same way. There’s Eskel. We grew up together. We got into a lot of trouble growing up at Kaer Morhen. Still, he’s always been the most level-headed one out of all of us. Would never take a bullshit contract on a higher vampire. He rarely loses his cool—it takes a lot to rile him up. I know I can always count on him, no matter what. He’s also damn good at casting signs and is probably the only person who could best me in swordsmanship.” 

“Oh, so you do possess at least one humble bone in your body. How interesting,” Regis teased. 

Geralt gave a pointed look over the lip of the bottle, eyebrows creasing. “I see that the pot’s calling the kettle black. You aren’t a beacon of humility either, Regis.” 

“Never said I was. Now continue, please.” 

“Fine. There’s Lambert. In a way, we’re pretty similar. Very prickly around the edges. Guess that’s why we’ve always been at each other’s throats. He’s my brother and I’d die for him, but he tries my patience all the time,” Geralt paused, giving a chuckle. “You’d probably like him, actually. He’s a grouch and always speaks his mind. But he’s got a good heart underneath all that. That’s why he pushes people away; he doesn’t want anyone to know how soft he really is.” 

“He does sound interesting. They both do. Now, is there anyone else that you’re close to?” 

A small smile tugged at the witcher’s lips. “Yeah.” 

“Another brother-in-arms?” 

“No. His name’s Vesemir. He’s like a father to me.” At the vampire’s stunned expression, Geralt raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “What? Is it so strange for a witcher to have a father? He took me in and raised me. I owe him my life.” 

“T-that’s not quite it,” Regis started, a momentary flash of panic in his eyes. He settled it with a long drought from the bottle, fingers flexing against his thigh. “Did you know your father has quite a few tales written about him? Tales that may or may not have been read to me as a child? ‘Don’t wander out alone, or the witcher Vesemir will cut off your head and eat you whole.’” 

Geralt slapped his knee, letting out a bark of laughter. The entire situation—a higher vampire being told bedtime stories about Vesemir and showcasing genuine fear towards him—was unbelievable. Surely he couldn’t be talking about the same Vesemir who he caught wiping tears from his eyes after finishing a particularly sad book? The man who, when Geralt was left broken and alone after the second round of mutations, took the time to carefully cut and brush his hair, which had grown wildly like a beanstalk after the last set of mutagens coursed through his veins. Vesemir was a kind soul; kinder than any witcher as old and as experienced as him had any business being. Somehow the years had softened him. Geralt wondered if it would be the same for him. Or if time and experience would sharpen his blade and make him cruel. 

“Don’t laugh,” Regis huffed, snatching the bottle back. “Up until meeting you, I assumed all witchers were genetically modified monster killers with a penchant for bloodshed beyond what comes naturally to vampires.” He downed the rest of the bottle, discarding it to the side. 

“Then why did you let me go when we first met?” 

“I… don’t know.” 

“Bullshit. There had to be something. You just said that you thought all witchers were monster killers.” 

Regis remained silent for some time, the atmosphere between the two men suddenly shifting from teasing to serious. Eventually, the vampire turned away from Geralt, rolling onto his side as if he were going to fall asleep. His voice came out somewhat muffled by the bedroll, but the witcher heard him just fine. “It was your words. They were as close to a wake-up call as I had gotten in the past ten years.” 

Geralt took an equal amount of time absorbing Regis’ words, not wanting to misspeak and threaten whatever sudden desire the vampire had to speak plainly about his past. “None of your… acquaintances thought your blood drinking was getting out of hand?” 

“No one was close enough to me to see that I had changed. That I craved blood as badly as a fisstech addict.” Regis turned around to face Geralt, eyes obscured by the bonfire before him. “But even though you did not know me then, you had hit the crux of the problem. Is it in my nature to kill and drink blood? Or is it something of a byproduct of vampire society?” 

“Don’t know,” Geralt said, rising to stand. With little preamble, he picked up his bedroll and laid it beside Regis. “But either way, it doesn’t really matter.” 

“What are you doing?” If Regis wasn’t in such a pensive mood, he’d have cracked a joke, made a jab at the witcher’s strange behavior. Instead, he found himself tracing the outline of Geralt’s figure as he stood with a hand cocked at his hips, gold eyes filled with what Regis could only describe as contentment. 

For some reason, the vampire had forgotten his trail of thought entirely. 

“Going to sleep. You should too,” Geralt replied, slipping into the bedroll. Instead of rolling over to face away from Regis, as he’d done many times when they had shared a bed at the inn, the witcher closed his eyes while facing the vampire. Whether it was due to their shared nightcap or the toils of the day, Geralt’s breathing had evened out, face relaxed. He was almost past the threshold of sleep mere moments after pressing his bedroll next to Regis. 

It was, Regis realized, an unspoken show of trust. It doesn’t really matter, Geralt had said. And meant it. Regardless of the proclivity of vampires, he saw Regis as an individual—and believed him to be capable of choosing to do good. Nurture or nature be damned. 

“Good night, Geralt,” Regis started, lips pulling into a grin. “And thank you. For trusting me. For giving me another chance. You will not regret it.” 

The witcher gave a sleepy grunt in affirmation. 

…

_Geralt’s eyes flew open at the feeling of a warm and heavy weight straddling his hips, the scent of herbs and cinnamon tickling his nose._

_“Oh, Geralt,” a teasing voice whispered in his ear. Though it was dark, his cat eyes could make out the lithe visage of a certain familiar vampire._

_“Regis?” the witcher asked, tongue suddenly as heavy as lead in his mouth._

_“Who else?” Cool hands cupped his face before he felt the vampire’s lips on his own._

_Geralt kissed back, letting out a low groan at the feeling of sharp teeth pressing against his bottom lip. Almost desperately, the witcher’s hands gripped Regis’ hips, traveling upwards to splay underneath his tunic. His hands roamed the soft skin there, relishing in the heat that radiated from the vampire._

_At his ministrations, Regis rewarded the witcher by slowly trailing a line of wet kisses down the column of his throat, sweetly pressing a chaste kiss to his pulse point. Geralt couldn’t help the sudden whine that escaped his lips as the vampire pulled away with a fanged grin, pupils blown wide with want._

_“Hmm, how lovely. Truly, you are everything I’ve ever wanted—and more.”_

_Regis cupped the nape of Geralt’s neck, clawed hand digging into his mess of white locks to tilt his head up, capturing the witcher’s lips in another searing kiss. Geralt melted into the touch, a warmth settling in his chest. He felt whole. Complete._

_It was beyond anything he’d felt before._

…

When Geralt awoke, it was to the first lights of dawn. He blinked owlishly at how close Regis was to him, their bedrolls having somehow overlapped each other during the night. 

All at once, memories of the dream flooded back to him with all the weight of a cudgel swung at his skull. 

_Oh, shit,_ Geralt thought. _Where did that come from?_

It had been a pleasant dream—the witcher couldn’t deny that. And he could admit that Regis was attractive, almost annoyingly so. They had also gotten closer during the past three weeks. But… to dream of making out with him? It was a first for Geralt. 

Though he was far from experienced, having only been on the Path and away from Kaer Morhen for a few years, his thoughts hadn’t drifted towards men until now. Not that he had been around too many men his age that he didn’t see as family. Between Eskel and Lambert and a handful of other witcher boys, the pool of possible men he could be attracted to was miniscule. 

No, he honestly didn’t care if he found men and women attractive; it was the fact that he had such a dream involving a higher vampire that left him with some unease. That would be difficult to explain to the other witchers at Kaer Morhen. 

As Geralt continued to brood, Regis awoke with a yawn. He flashed the witcher a sleepy grin before starting his morning routine, quick to change into proper traveling attire. 

Geralt did the same, reaching into his rucksack for the rations they’d gotten back in Francollarts for their respective mounts. Roach and Regis’ mount nipped happily at chunks of red apple as the witcher stroked their manes. 

“So, Geralt, what are our plans for the day?” 

“Let’s gather some ingredients—for your brew and for some of my potions—and then ride towards Beauclair. I’m sure we’ll find a contract or two that will easily line our pockets.” That’s what the witcher needed. Something to take his mind off whatever he was feeling towards Regis. 

Regis smiled. “Lead the way, witcher.” 

And so Geralt did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw ur bi awakening is due to a higher vampire/monster lol 
> 
> hope y’all enjoyed the chapter and the first real stirrings of that good ol' geralt/regis content u were waiting for! i know it was mostly dialogue, but i decided to stop the chapter here because the next chapter will be very different in tone ^^; but yeah, thanks again for all the support so far. my life is hectic as heck rt now due to good things, thankfully, so thank u guys again for being so patient~


	10. Glass Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> geralt pulls a prank on regis, they solve a mystery in beauclair, & a familiar but unwanted face makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for this chapter include a scene of self-inflicted mutilation and animal death (not graphic).

The winding road to Beauclair was surrounded by herbs and grasses, a fact that delighted both the witcher and the vampire equally. Excited, Regis ushered the witcher further into the surrounding woods, remarking that mandrake would likely be found deep in the underbrush. 

“While mandrake is often harvested in the summer months, the plant itself is quite fragile. It needs heat and heavy rain to flourish, but can wither if left without a proper canopy to shade it,” Regis said, turning to smoke as he drifted through the dense thicket of trees. 

Geralt grunted in return as he followed the vampire’s trail, stooping down every few meters to collect his own potion-making ingredients: ribleaf for White Rafford’s Decoction, celandine for Swallow, and barbecane fruit for Cat. The casual abundance of Toussaint made the witcher’s work easy, scooping up handfuls of the herbs and flowers while Regis flitted about, looking half-possessed in his frantic stops and spurts as he searched the soil for the telltale sign of mandrake: a rosette arrangement of viridian leaves. 

“Isn’t mandrake rare?” Geralt asked, tugging the vampire to a stop by the back of his hood. The frequent flurry of motion from smoke to corporeal was giving the witcher a headache. 

Regis huffed, but otherwise conceded. “Of course. But Toussaint is ripe with rarities. Come, let’s try the grove over there.” 

Just as they were to cross the threshold from the usual woodlands fare to random scatterings of grasses and oaks, Regis stretched his arm, barring Geralt’s way. “Wait a moment, mandrake is toxic. You’ll need protective gear.” 

“Like what? Gloves and a mask?” 

“Precisely.” 

Geralt folded his arms, raising a brow. “You wouldn’t happen to own any of this, would you?”  
“Unfortunately, no. I will admit, I did not think about the needs of a human when I packed,” he paused, flashing the witcher a grin. “Just stay here and ruminate on your luck—not many witchers can say they’ve traveled with a docile higher vampire.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Docile is the last thing I’d say to describe you.” 

“Oh, then what would be the first? Charming? Intelligent? Handsome?” 

“Insufferable.”

Regis crinkled his nose. “Interesting. That is the same word I’d use to describe you.” 

Turning on his heel, the vampire began to search the grove, marveling in delight at the plentiful amount of mandrake. Geralt watched with amusement, leaning comfortably against the nearest tree. He listened to the sound of the birds above, the sound of Regis digging the mandrake out with a small shovel, the gentle swaying of the branches. It was enough that he felt himself relaxing, meditating despite being alone in a forest with a higher vampire. 

When was the last time he truly appreciated the calm and quiet of nature? Guess I have Regis to thank for this, he mused, lips quirking briefly upwards. Time passed and soon, the vampire had an ample supply of mandrake. Enough that he approached Geralt with a spring in his step, whistling a charming tune. 

All at once, a long, low-pitched howl erupted from the south, stopping the vampire in his tracks. Regis shuddered, hand reaching up to grip a nearby branch with enough pressure to snap it clean in half. 

Geralt quirked a brow, head tilting quizzically to the side. “Regis?” 

“That… that didn’t sound like a werewolf, did it?” 

“Werewolf?” Geralt started, a flicker of realization passing his face. He rubbed his jaw as if deep in thought, golden eyes tracing what was obviously the remnants of a wolf pack’s well-trodden path at his feet. “Hmm, could be. Would need to do more of an investigation to be sure.” 

Regis visibly paled. “If it’s quite alright with you, I think I’d rather return to our mounts and take the road to Beauclair. I’ve gathered enough mandrake for now.” 

“But what if this werewolf has a large bounty on its head? We could be swimming in coin,” Geralt pressed, the barest glimmer of a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Coin or not, I am tired. Let’s go,” Regis quipped, fastening the clasp of his satchel and stomping forward. It was perhaps one of the shortest sentences Geralt had ever heard the vampire utter and the realization sparked a devious flash in the witcher’s eyes. 

Geralt waited a few beats before following behind the skittish man. Regis clutched the strap of his bag with both hands, turning his head every so often at the sound of crunching leaves. Another howl echoed through the trees and the vampire quickened his pace to that of a brisk walk. The witcher had to bite his cheek to keep his expression neutral at the sight of Regis’ wide, dark eyes searching for him in the brush. 

“Geralt, what do you—” 

“Regis, behind you,” Geralt suddenly uttered with as serious a tone as he could muster. 

Without a moment of hesitation, Regis twisted his hips, using the momentum to slash at whatever beast had managed to sneak up behind him. Instead, his deadly claws sliced evenly through the trunk of the nearest tree, toppling it to its side. 

Geralt couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. He chuckled as the vampire slowly realized he’d been splendidly tricked, giving a short clap of his hands. “Looks like you’ve felled the beast—congratulations, Regis.”

The vampire’s immediate reaction was to glare at the man, though his ire faded into that of fond annoyance at the sight of Geralt’s open countenance. He settled for a sigh, rubbing at his temples. “That was an amusing trick, Geralt. Don’t be surprised if you wake one morning to leeches in your sheets.” 

“Not like that’d be anything new,” Geralt teased back with a lopsided grin, feeling lighter and happier than he had in awhile. It always did him some good to quench his naturally mischievous nature with a harmless prank. 

Regis spluttered in a mix of indignation and surprise, turning away from the witcher. “You truly are the most insufferable man alive.” 

Geralt smiled, returning to Regis’ side. The pair traversed the forest in a companionable silence until the witcher cleared his throat, pausing in his steps. 

“Hey, Regis?” 

“Yes?” 

“So why are you afraid of werewolves?” 

Regis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of an answer.” 

Geralt chuckled again and, despite it all, Regis smiled at the sound. 

...

It turned out that it wouldn’t be all that difficult to secure a contract—not when a man came running towards the pair as if there were a pack of Barghests nipping at his heels. Geralt had just passed the southern threshold of the city, hadn’t even gotten wind of a notice board when the young man came into view, huffing and out of breath. Regis, content to stand beside the witcher, eyed the approaching townsman with a weary look. 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” the vampire whispered, struck with a sudden, unexplainable bout of anxiety. Something wasn’t right. Not with the man and certainly not with Beauclair. 

“It’ll be fine,” Geralt assured, gaze aloof and unbothered. Better to appear unperturbed—though the witcher too felt a heaviness to the city. The atmosphere was completely different to Francollarts. 

“Please, I don’t want to die!” the man gasped, kneeling before Geralt as his hands trembled against the cobblestone. 

“Stand up,” Geralt started, tugging the sweating man to his feet. “What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into? I’m a witcher, not an assassin for hire. If you have debts that need to be paid, you should find someone else to help you.” 

“I hear them all around me. The whispers. They plague me day and night,” the man rambled, fixing his attention to the silent vampire. “I’ll cut off my ears. I’ll bash my head into the stones. Just make their voices go away!” He gripped Regis’ shoulders with the same sort of desperation a drowning man would show to a single piece of driftwood. 

The vampire only had to prod gently at the man’s mind to get him to release his grip. It was terribly easy to see how fractured his conscience was; sympathy stirred in Regis’ gut at the thought. “Hmm, voices you say? Geralt, what sort of creature could cause such a thing?” 

“Not many,” the witcher replied, folding his arms. “If it is due to a monster, then it’s likely a specter—” 

“They know everything about me! Every action I’ve ever took, every thought that rattled about in my head!” the man interrupted, voice rising from a quiver to a piercing wail. It was loud enough to draw attention from the nearby residential district, clapboard windows bursting open as townsfolk gazed curiously at the newest spectacle. 

“Oi, Ludovic, quit your yapping! One more outburst and I’m gonna come down there and clobber you!” a townsman yelled from a window, angrily blowing smoke from his pipe. From the heavy bags underneath his eyes, it was obvious that Ludovic had been a source of frustration for those living near him. 

Geralt intervened just as the panic-stricken man opened his mouth, signing Axii with a quick hand. “Take us to your home.” 

Without a word, Ludovic began his walk, motions slow and uneven, as if he were a marionette on strings. 

Regis’ frown deepened as he matched Geralt’s gait, dark eyes flickering to the man before them. “Poor man. Whatever’s he plagued by is nothing like I’ve seen. It’s fascinating.” 

Geralt gave a weary look. “He’s not some science experiment.” 

“I didn’t mean anything like that,” Regis said. “Just that this is an experience I can learn much from. I hope we can aid him, pocket some coin, and continue the journey.” 

Both men lapsed into silence as they followed Ludovic, passing a few dense alleyways until coming to a stop in front of a small, well-kept house. It was sandwiched between a blacksmith’s shop and an empty storefront, tucked in a dead-end a few streets away from the other residential buildings. 

To Geralt’s surprise, Ludovic turned towards the blacksmith shop, fishing out a brass key to open the door. 

“I smelled soot and ash on him, but thought he might work in the mines. A blacksmith… so he’s fairly well-off it seems,” Regis observed, passing the threshold of the shop. 

Though the forge was outside, the inside was awash with a similar warmth, a fire already smoldering away in the fireplace. Ludovic broke from the trance in front of the fire, adding another log before he realized he did not recall walking back home. Swiveling on his heels, he stood agape in front of the men. 

“I apologize, but do I know you two? I wasn’t expecting visitors on my day off.” 

Geralt and Regis shared a look. 

“Do you not recall talking to us?” Regis asked. 

The blacksmith shook his head. “No, sir. Did you folk send a messenger? I’m afraid I have too many requests. I cannot make anymore tools or weapons until next week at the very earliest.”

Before either man could respond, the door to the shop violently swung open, rattling the smithing tools hooked on the wall. A woman of similar age to Ludovic entered, a frantic look besetting her tired features. At the sight of the dark-haired man she let out a relieved sigh, rushing over to embrace him. 

“Dear, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I told you to leave the errands to me. You’re in no state to be walking around alone.” 

“I know, Flora. I only wanted to watch the sunrise… I must have lost track of time again.” he frowned. “I don’t quite remember much, actually. Just those horrid voices.”

“Madame Flora, is it? I am Emiel Regis. May my associate and I speak with you? We’d like to help your husband,” Regis interrupted, holding out a hand. “We witnessed his… condition and would like to offer our services.” 

“Which are?” 

“I’m a witcher. Geralt of Rivia,” he answered. 

Flora eyed the man coldly, moving to stand in front of her husband. “All you do is hunt monsters. How can you help Ludovic? He’s not a monster.” 

Geralt’s voice held little room for argument when he spoke, timbre even and severe. “No, but he may be plagued by one. You only have to pay me if his condition improves.” 

Flora sighed, folding her arms. “Alright. I’m willing to try anything to help him.” She turned towards her husband, kissing him on the cheek. “Ludovic, why don’t you rest by the fire? I can bring you some tea after I talk to these two.” 

Ludovic nodded, slouching into the armchair. He stroked his cheek, giving a soft smile at his wife. “Yes, I do feel quite tired all of a sudden. Thank you, love.” 

Flora led the witcher and the vampire to the accompanying house, ushering them into the rustic dining room. “I apologize if my behavior seemed rude, but I’m used to protecting Ludovic. He’s the softer one out of the two of us.” 

“What do you mean?” Regis asked, taking a seat beside the witcher at the table. 

“He’s unbelievably kind,” Flora started. “It’s what I fell in love with immediately. He’s always been a soft-spoken, docile man. Never quick to anger. Gentle. Loving. Has no stomach for violence or the cruelties of the world. I’ve seen him cry at the sight of beggars.”

“He sounds like a truly good man, though sheltered.” Geralt replied. 

Flora nodded. “Ludovic’s family is one of the wealthiest in Toussaint. They make their money from an extensive network of vineyards. But Ludovic didn’t care for the trade. He gave up most of his inheritance to his younger brother, Raphael, and moved into the city. He’d always had a knack for building and creating things, so he opened up a blacksmith shop. It’s where we first met.” 

“I’m guessing it was love at first sight?” the witcher asked. 

“Not quite,” Flora said. She began to pick at the hem of her blouse, gaze cast to the floor. She clenched her hands into fists. “…I tried to rob him. My parents were farmhands and died suddenly one winter. After that, I was left alone. I was nineteen, cold, tired, and then I hear about some rich brat who decided to open up a blacksmith shop. He didn’t even lock his doors at night.” 

Regis leaned forward, dark eyes alight with interest. “What happened?” 

“I broke into his house one night and took every valuable I came across—which wasn’t much, mind you. He gave all his frivolous things to Raphael. I assumed he’d have a safe of some kind, but I couldn’t find it. I was so desperate that I searched all the rooms for him. Eventually, I entered the blacksmith shop and found him asleep in the chair by the fireplace. I held a knife to his throat and asked him for the most expensive item he had. He didn’t seem afraid despite my best attempts—but he took me to a wooden chest and pulled out this ornate bone dagger, supposedly forged from the rib of a dragon. It was an heirloom passed down in his family for generations… and he gave it to me with a smile. He could have easily overpowered me at any time, but you know what he did? He saw the sack of stolen items slung over my shoulder and asked if I wanted any food from his pantry. He wanted me to have one decent meal before I left.” 

“Then what?” Geralt too seemed as engrossed with Flora’s story as Regis was. 

“He gave me a job as his apprentice. I was awful at smithing though. He noticed my love of books, however, and hired a tutor for me with the last of his savings. I wasn’t illiterate, but my vocabulary and voracity for knowledge increased tenfold. I was then able to go to university and study to my heart’s content. Sometime during this period, I realized I was in love with Ludovic. Not for what he did for me, but for what he saw in me. He gave me a second chance because he liked me for my wit, my snark, my stubbornness, my utter lack of understanding when it came to anything traditionally ladylike or proper. He loved me for what others saw as faults. We’ve only been married for two years, but they’ve been the happiest years of my life… up until a month ago.” 

Geralt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So it was a sudden change? One day he just started hearing things? Nothing out of the usual occurred?” 

Flora opened her mouth to speak, but stopped, gaze darting to Regis. His expression was softer, more sympathetic than the witcher’s. She cleared her throat, taking a few steadying breaths. 

“…I think I’m the cause of it. The voices,” she finally said, brave façade crumbling under the weight of a month’s worth of anxiety and fear. Dry sobs abruptly wracked her frame, body shuddering as she curled up in the chair, bringing her knees to her chest. Both witcher and vampire stilled, neither expecting such a sudden, visceral reaction from the dark-haired woman.

“Madame Flora,” Regis started, “Whatever you think you did, whatever onus you have buried yourself under, it does not matter. It is in the past. Right now you have the power to help your husband.” 

Geralt nodded in agreement. “Like Regis said, Ludovic’s life is in your hands. You have the chance to help him. Tell us what happened.” 

Flora took in a deep breath, willing her voice to remain steady. She could no longer watch her husband’s condition deteriorate. Not even if it meant damning herself. “Right before Ludovic’s symptoms started, I went on a stroll in the city. I ended up at the docks. After that, I have no recollection of the rest of the day. It’s as if it were erased from my mind. Ludovic tried to act normal, like nothing had changed, but I know him too well. His face is an open book. He was obviously in pain, but I was too afraid to confront him. I didn’t want to know what happened, why my memory was gone. Still, he didn’t immediately start hearing voices—first his appetite slowly disappeared, he slept through most of the day, and his metalwork began to suffer. I watched him spiral into madness and all I did was offer a shoulder to cry on. Please, tell me it isn’t too late to save him!” 

“It’ll be difficult, but I have a good guess as to what is plaguing your husband. I just need to speak with him while he’s still cognizant.” 

She nodded. “Yes, he always seems to come back to his senses when he sees fire. Perhaps the flames drive the monsters off?” 

“Many monsters do seem affected by light, especially in folkloric tales,” Regis mused, stroking his chin. “Humanity’s heliophilia is an evolutionary byproduct. Where there is light, there are other humans. You get stability, shelter, kinship. In the light, the only monsters humans have to fear are each other.” 

“How philosophical of you,” Geralt replied. “But now’s not the time to wax poetic. Come on, let’s return to Ludovic.”

…

Regis smelled the blood before Geralt did.

“Geralt,” Regis warned, pulling the witcher’s hand away from the door to the blacksmith shop. “Madame Flora, please return to your home. I can tell that it is not safe for you to come with us.” 

“But Ludovic—“ 

“Let us handle it. We’ll do everything we can,” Geralt replied, unsheathing his silver sword. 

Flora returned to the adjacent house, calling out to the men just before she closed the door, “Whatever happens, know that I will not blame either of you. This is my fault, in the end.” 

Geralt turned to Regis, studying the vampire’s face. “Are you going to be alright in there?” 

Regis gave a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll manage. Besides, you still smell more delicious than him.” 

“That’s not reassuring,” the witcher muttered, swiftly opening the door. 

Now, without the wooden barrier, the scent of blood was so strong that even Geralt grimaced. 

Ludovic was sitting against the wall, staring blankly at the blood on his shaking hands. A bone dagger was left impaled in his thigh, blood staining his breeches. Cuts and gashes littered his arms, blood dripping down his wrists and onto the wooden floor. 

Regis bit his tongue hard enough draw blood, holding back a hiss. 

“Stay by the door,” the witcher ordered, briefly looking back at Regis’ strained expression before kneeling beside Ludovic. “Hey, Ludovic. Can you hear me?” 

It was only then that Geralt noticed the tears that welled in the man’s green eyes. 

Ludovic muttered something under his breath before he turned to look at Geralt, blinking the tears away. A sharp groan of pain slipped past his lips as he slowly regained consciousness. “W-what’s going on? Gods, did I do this to myself?” 

“Let’s get you patched up,” Geralt said, motioning for Regis’ satchel. 

The vampire fumbled for the materials, hands trembling as he passed a roll of bandages to the witcher. “I can assist, if you’d like,” Regis called, dark eyes darting to the small pool of blood beside Ludovic. His nostrils flared as Geralt carefully removed the bone dagger from the man’s thigh. 

“…It’s alright. Go to Flora and tell her that we need torches and candles. A lot of them.” 

Regis left without preamble, leaving Geralt alone to tend to the blacksmith. After cleaning and bandaging the wounds, the witcher helped the man into his chair by the fireplace. 

“Ludovic, I need you to tell me what happened. You know why you’re hearing voices, don’t you?” 

The man bowed his head, interlacing his fingers in his lap. His voice quivered. “I-I was selfish. Horribly selfish. And because of what I did, a child died.” 

“So that’s what’s on your conscience…” Geralt trailed, brows furrowing. “Explain. Flora never painted you in a selfish light. In fact, she seems to think she’s to blame for the voices.” 

Ludovic immediately shook his head, letting out a gasp. “No! Flora is not responsible for any of this! It was my choice and I must live with the consequences. I deserve this punishment.” 

Geralt folded his arms. “Do you? So far, nothing you’ve said has been all that incriminating. Did you accidentally kill a child?” 

“I...I made a deal with a monster,” Ludovic started. “Flora was out by the docks one morning. She loved looking out at the water. A boathand said it was a freak accident. One moment, she’s on the dock, watching the sunrise. They found her body pinned underneath a boat a few hours later. She somehow fell into the water, must have gotten disoriented… and drowned. I was completely inconsolable. I wandered Beauclair, went so far as the Harbor Gate. I didn’t know what to do—I kept walking until I saw what I thought was a man by the crossroads.” 

“What you thought was a man?” 

“He looked and talked like a man, but he’s some kind of devil, I’m sure of it. He asked me what was wrong and, like the fool I am, I told him. He assured me he could _resolve_ my problem, so long as I was alright with tying my soul to Flora’s. I agreed before he could even tell me the rest of what he required. I thought he was a wizard, that he was going to perform some sort of necromancy and bring Flora back.” 

“…It wasn’t that simple, was it?” 

Ludovic shook his head, giving a sad smile. “When I returned home, Flora was asleep in our bed. She had no recollection of the day. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I thought we had gotten lucky. So what if our souls were tied together? He explained that it meant that when she died, I would too—or vice versa. But I didn’t care. It meant more time with her. I didn’t realize that a soul would be needed in exchange for bringing Flora back. When I ventured to the docks a few weeks later, I saw a grieving family. It was like history was rewritten; instead of Flora underneath the boat, it was this little boy. He’s dead because of me—because of my selfishness. My weakness. Because I didn’t want to live without Flora.” 

Before Geralt could respond, Regis and Flora walked through the door. They both had an armful of candles and torches, depositing them onto the floor in the center of the room. 

“Good. We’ll need to light all of the candles and torches and put them in the corners of the room. We need as much light as possible to draw out the specter.” 

“Specter? So a ghost is haunting Ludovic?” Regis questioned, lighting the first candle. 

“Not quite. It’s a hym. A rare type of specter that possesses those with a guilty conscience. Instead of simply killing their victim, hyms drive them to insanity. They whisper all sorts of things to their victim—leading the person to either listen to the voices and perform acts of self-mutilation or simply go mad. Fortunately, Ludovic has only been tormented for about a month; it should be easier to separate from him and kill.” 

“Ludovic, what happened? Please, you can tell me,” Flora said, clasping Ludovic’s hands in her own. 

“It’s a long explanation. We don’t have time right now. We need to defeat this hym while it’s still relatively weak. Let’s focus on lighting the candles,” Geralt cut in, handing candles to Flora and Ludovic. 

Once all the candles were in place, Geralt began the rest of his preparations, securing two moon dust bombs onto his belt and applying specter oil to his silver sword. Flora left to return to the safety of the house, kissing Ludovic’s forehead before leaving.

Geralt turned to the vampire. “Regis, I could use your help… if you’re up for it.” 

“I think a distraction would be lovely. What do you need me to do?” 

“Protect Ludovic. Given his weak constitution, he’ll likely faint when the hym leaves his body. Make sure the hym doesn’t possess him again.” Geralt handed him a bottle of specter oil, lowering his voice. “Put this on your claws when you can. It should let you attack the hym.” 

Regis nodded, pocketing the bottle. “A good plan indeed. I’ll do all that I can.” 

It wasn’t until late into the night that the hym finally showed itself. Sure enough, Ludovic fainted immediately at the sight of the hulking shadow. Regis quickly applied the specter oil onto his claws, clashing them together with a growl. 

The witcher threw a moon dust bomb at the hym, stunning it in place. He then twisted through the hazy smoke, his sword cutting easily through the shadowy figure. The hym reared back in pain, only to be skewered by Regis’ claws. Enraged, the hym flung an arm towards Regis with enough force to send the vampire flying into the wall. He fell at the foot of the fireplace, a low snarl ripping past his lips as he disappeared into mist. 

Geralt ran forward, aiming Igni towards the hym’s face. It cried out in pain, blindly reaching for the witcher. Just as a clawed hand swiped at the witcher’s chest, Regis appeared, slicing off the arm in a single motion. 

“Thanks,” the witcher said, casting Igni once more as Regis turned to mist again, reappearing safely behind Geralt. 

Regis nodded, returning his attention to the hym. 

In pain and without the energy of its host, the specter’s movements grew desperate and unpredictable. It slashed and clawed without preamble, focusing solely on the vampire. Despite his ability to turn to mist, Regis reappeared just as the hym reached out, slamming him into the floor by his throat. 

Just as the vampire readied his claws to cut into the shadow, Geralt charged at the monster, pirouetting so that his sword sliced through the hym’s stomach three times in rapid succession. 

The specter released Regis and fell backwards, flailing on the ground. Its form seemingly began to melt into the floor, inky rivulets slipping through the cracks in the floorboard. Geralt cursed, driving his sword into the center of the bubbling mass. “It’s trying to get away!” 

Regis dove towards the shadow, scraping his claws vertically down the figure. Chunks of black sludge stuck to his claws as he pulled away, allowing Geralt to cast Igni a final time. 

The hym melted into a pool of black, a final screech emanating from within the inky remains.

Geralt sheathed his sword, wiping sweat from his brow. He held out a hand. “Nice work, Regis.” 

The vampire studied the man, gaze flickering from Geralt’s face to his gauntlet before clasping his hand. He gave a genuine grin, fangs exposed, eyes crinkling. “We make a good team, don’t we?” 

“That we do,” Geralt agreed, smiling back. He tried not to focus too much on the bubble of warmth that he felt at the sight of Regis’ smile.

…

With ample coin in hand and the promise of a new iron sword for Geralt, the pair walked to the nearest bar, intent on spending their coin on drink and food. Geralt explained to Regis the pieces of the story that he had missed when gathering the candles as they ate in the corner of the bar.

All seemed well until they were approached by a bald man with dark brown eyes. He waved as if he knew the men well, choosing to sit beside Geralt. 

Geralt raised a brow; not many would be so brazen as to sit beside a witcher. “Do I know you?” 

The man laughed. “No, but I know you. I wanted to express my thanks for helping my dear friend Ludovic. He’s a good man.” 

“So we’ve been told,” Geralt said, eyes narrowing. “Who are you?” 

“Ah, I go by many names. It’s a part of the trade, you see. Some call me Master Mirror or Man of Glass, but I prefer Gaunter O’Dimm.” 

“You wouldn’t happen to be the type to frequent crossroads and grant people wishes, would you?” Regis asked, tone acrid. 

O’Dimm ignored the question, leaning forward, lips pulled into a crooked grin. “I’m only here to offer a bit of advice: there will come a time when someone will call for you, Master Regis. You’ll be paying for peace in blood—and only blood.” The unusual man turned to Geralt. “Likewise, you too will face trials, but with a wolf at your side. Do not let the wolf go alone, less you wish to see it on a pyre.” 

“What are you saying?” Geralt asked, but the man was gone before he finished his sentence. Not in a cloud of mist like a vampire, but as if he had never been leaning against the wooden column. As if he never existed at all. 

Regis shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “What a foreboding omen. Even I felt a chill at his presence. His words weren’t very comforting either.” 

“Don’t put any stock into it,” Geralt said, flagging down the barkeep to order two bottles. Oddity or not, nothing was going to make the witcher attempt to find someone so obviously dangerous, not when there was a perfectly stocked bar at his disposal. “No one can know someone’s future. Nothing is written in stone.” 

“That may be true, but Oracles and Seers do exist.” 

“And so do people who would pretend to be such things to swindle you of coin. I don’t care if O’Dimm is from another world; I won’t let anyone decide my Fate.” 

“Oh, so you believe in Fate, then? Interesting for a witcher.” 

“No, I believe only in my own abilities. Fate, circumstance, what have you—it’s nothing but an excuse people use when things don’t go their way. I make my own choices and I won’t be swayed into fearing the future by some strange man in a bar.” 

Regis was silent for a moment, absorbing the witcher’s words. “An interesting life philosophy. There really is such an understated intellectual depth to you, beyond the monster killing and cold demeanor.” His tone shifted, voice light. “Perhaps you should teach classes at Oxenfurt. I hear Redania’s lovely this time of year.” 

Geralt snorted, lightly shoving Regis’ shoulder. “Only if you teach a class too. Is there a subject for talkative know-it-alls?” 

“Yes, of course,” Regis replied bluntly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning. “It’s called political science.” 

“Gods, you would enjoy being a political leader, wouldn’t you?” 

“…Most definitely. But it is likely not as entertaining as being a witcher’s babysitter.” 

“Oh, shut it. I’ve saved your ass plenty of times.” 

“Hmm, have you? I’m afraid my memory is failing me. You know how it is when one gets old.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, handing over some coins to the barkeep. He motioned for Regis to follow. “Alright, old man. Let’s get you back to the inn so you can prop up your feet. Or do I need to carry you?” 

“I wouldn’t say no to being carried,” Regis teased. “But I have to warn you. I may look lithe, but I’ve actually got some muscle. I may be too heavy for you.” 

“And I’m not exactly weak. I could easily carry you over my shoulder. I would do it now if I weren’t holding these bottles.” 

Regis raised a brow. “Really now? I won’t believe it until I see it.” 

“Alright. Remind me later and I’ll carry you all the way to the marketplace.” 

Both men laughed as they left the bar, heading northwest towards the inn by the docks. Despite the tribulations of the day, they had both found some solace in each other’s company. It was a far cry from Geralt’s lonely walk down the Path, and for that, he couldn’t say he regretted meeting Regis—even if he’d become a vampire-magnet ever since their first meeting. 

_Wonder what Vesemir would think if he knew I befriended a higher vampire. He’d probably think I’d gone mad. But then again, Regis isn’t your typical monster either._

Geralt’s thoughts drifted towards Vesemir again as he walked beside Regis; he’d be sure to visit Kaer Morhen come winter, regardless of whether he’d have to drag a certain higher vampire with him.

…

With bottles and tankards in hand, Regis and Geralt ascended the stairs to their room. Geralt was the first to shed away his armor, giving a relieved sigh as he reclined on the cot pressed to the wall, resting his back against the wooden paneling.

Regis followed suit, joining Geralt beside him. “Now that I think about it, this really was a strange day,” he said, filling Geralt’s tankard. 

Geralt gave his thanks, taking a long swig. “Mhmm. Something still feels off, though. That Gaunter O’Dimm… my medallion didn’t so much as twitch, but I know he wasn’t a wizard performing a parlor trick.” 

“I agree. I’ve seen those eyes before. They mark him as a man without a conscience.” 

“Like Ezehiel?” Geralt offered. 

Regis drank deeply from the bottle. “Like me.” 

“Regis—“ 

“No, Geralt. I was—am—a monster. I’m a blood addict. And there’s a part of me that knows I’ll never get better, because I don’t want to.” 

“So you’re telling me that you like being bound to your vices?” 

Regis clicked his tongue. “I like the rush of euphoria. I like the taste. I like losing myself, even if only for a moment. It’s tiring, blending in with humans.” 

“You don’t have to do that shit around me,” Geralt replied, draining his tankard. He clasped Regis’ right shoulder, golden eyes boring into the vampire. “I’ll never fully understand what you’re going through, but I know a thing or two about pretending. Just be yourself, Regis. Who you really are. Not the blood-crazed monster or the prattling smooth-talker.” 

“Who I really am?” Regis echoed, gaze also turned unabashedly towards the witcher. He noticed, for the first time, that Geralt’s pupils had dilated, the usual slanted discs now blown wide—an effect of the alcohol, he assumed. A small, hopeful part of him yearned for the biological reaction to be an indicator of something else, a hint that perhaps the witcher felt some form of affection for him. The vampire shook away the thought. Now wasn’t the time. 

In the span of seconds, Geralt found himself on the floor, pinned underneath Regis. 

“Regis, what—“ the words died in the witcher’s throat as he felt the other man’s breath tickle his ear. Then, there was the scrape of fangs against his neck. The gasp Geralt let out was unintended, but it only caused the vampire to tighten his grip, a low growl escaping Regis’ lips. 

“Don’t tempt me, Geralt. What if the blood-crazed monster is the real me? Would you still want me by your side?” Regis pulled away from the witcher’s throat, placing the palm of his hand over Geralt’s steadily beating heart. “What if I wanted to pluck your heart out? It’d be incredibly easy to do so. You wouldn’t even feel a thing.” 

Regis stilled at the feeling of the witcher’s body shaking underneath him, fearing that he had finally pushed him too far. Instead, Geralt tipped his head back and laughed, eyes crinkling. He then wrapped his hand gently around Regis’ wrist, but did not push him away, merely offering a relaxed grin. 

The vampire savored the touch. He forgot entirely about wanting to scare Geralt, his world shrinking into two points: the drum of the witcher’s heartbeat and the warmth of his fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

“It’s gonna take more than this to get rid of me. We’re friends, Regis. And as your friend, I can tell when you’re bullshitting me,” Geralt said.” I’m not going to abandon you.” 

“…Thank you, Geralt,” Regis said once he’d regained his voice, no longer dumbstruck by the witcher’s perceptive nature. “I think I needed to hear that.” 

Geralt grunted in return. “Of course.”

…

_“Someone’s up early,” a familiar voice teased, . Regis felt a pair of warm lips press against his shoulder, kisses trailing upwards until they reached the nape of his neck. The vampire melted into the touch, letting out a pleased sigh._

_Regis knew who was lying beside him even before he turned over onto his back. Sure enough, he saw a pair of mischievous golden eyes framed by a wild mess of silver hair. The vampire reached forward to push Geralt’s bangs away from his face, relishing in the warmth of his skin._

_The witcher kissed the palm of Regis’ hand as he pulled away, snaking an arm around the vampire’s waist. “What? Did I actually render you speechless? I know I’m a great kisser but—“_

_Regis cupped Geralt’s cheek before leaning in to press a desperate kiss to Geralt’s lips. Geralt returned the kiss in earnest, nipping teasingly at Regis’ lips, only pulling away to briefly chuckle._

_“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere, Regis.”_

_At the other man’s words, Regis stilled, a sudden realization hitting him. He really was slowly falling for the witcher. Why else would he be having these dreams?_

_This was the third dream he had of Geralt since meeting him—and eventually, he’d have to accept that the likelihood of his budding feelings being returned were slim to none. But, that didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in his dreams for now. Not when the Geralt his mind conjured up was just as lovely and beautiful as the real one._

_No, there was no harm at all, the vampire mused, curling up against the witcher, head pillowed against Geralt’s chest. He gave a lazy, content smile, fangs and all, clinging to the warmth underneath him. For once, he felt at peace. It had been so long since he had a dream untainted by blood._

_“Thank you, Geralt."_

_“For what?”_

_“For giving me something to cherish.”_

…

Their time in Beauclair was relatively peaceful in comparison to their first contract. It was the usual witcher-fare—nothing that couldn’t be solved with an oil-slick silver blade. Regis aided in his own way, often bartering for better prices and wooing the contract-givers. However, as time passed, it was becoming more and more difficult for Regis to curb his addiction. His last drink of human blood had been back in Francollarts, and that had only been a few sips. Now, they’d stayed in Beauclair for another three weeks. In total, he had gone six week without a drop of human blood, following around a witcher whose blood smelled sweeter than anything else to Regis.

It was damn near maddening. At least out on the road or in a small town like Francollarts, there weren’t as many viable blood donors. But Beauclair was awash with temptations—Regis was plagued by crowds of unsuspecting humans at almost all moments of the day. It tested him beyond his limits, having never been the type to abstain from blood before now. His thoughts were soon muddied by his addiction, making it more and more difficult for him to be of use when procuring contracts. 

He eventually started going out at night, knowing full well that Geralt would wake at the slightest sound or gust of wind. But, even so, the witcher did not follow Regis. He remained in their shared room out of a show of trust. 

Regis, knowing this, sought out animal blood as a substitute. It was not as potent as human blood, but the minor rush of euphoria was enough. It had to be. Geralt trusted him—the only human to ever do so. And Regis did not want to betray him, not after everything they’d gone through. 

Crouched upon the corpse of a deer, Regis absentmindedly licked away the blood on his claws, a wave of self-loathing slowly gripping him. Here he was, alone in the dark, drinking the blood of some wild animal, acting just as human fairytales described vampires. He was absolutely disgusted with himself. 

I need to change—this can’t go on for much longer. I’ll lose control and hurt Geralt if this continues. 

“Hello, Regis,” a voice echoed in the breeze, a brown-haired man appearing from within the gold-tinged mist. 

Regis immediately stood upright, baring his teeth. “What are you doing here, Ezehiel?” 

The vampire sighed. “I’ve been keeping my eye on you ever since you so rudely threw me out of your home. And hmm, I’ve witnessed such uncharacteristic behavior; you’re usually much more dignified than this. Tell me, is that witcher still tugging at your conscience?” 

“Leave Geralt out of this.” 

Ezehiel’s eyes narrowed, lips pulling into a thin scowl. Wordlessly, he threw a vial towards Regis. The vampire caught it, recognizing the contents immediately. 

“Consider this a gift. You’ve gone so long without human blood—would one snifter really hurt? I even got your favorite.” 

Uncorking the vial, Regis was met with an all too familiar scent. In a show of restraint that would have been impossible a month ago, Regis corked the vial and slipped it into his own pocket, features growing sharp and monstrous. 

“This is Adriel’s blood. What have you done, Ezehiel?” 

Ezehiel smiled. “Why don’t you come with me and find out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> touch starved!regis is definitely a thing, as is pining!regis. bless his heart, he’s going thru a lot in this au (but to be fair, he goes thru a lot in the canon universe too sooooooo). i headcanon that regis, like orianna, has a preference for children’s blood (i mean his journal in b&w definitely makes it sound as such), but he is less likely to act upon such urges compared to orianna, at least when he’s of sound mind and not completely blood-drunk. 
> 
> also, adriel's the kid regis saved in ch.2, in case y'all forgot (it has been a while after all) 
> 
> and i took some liberties w/ hyms. they’re so cool, probably one of my favorite monsters in the witcher series. i wish we had more content of them tbh. anyway, thanks for sticking w/ this story and being awesome readers! we’re finally getting to the real juicy stuff now… i do have this story outlined so hopefully upcoming updates will be at a more regular schedule ^^; grad school is tough, but working on this fic gives my brain a break from neuroscience, so don’t worry, more chapters will be coming soon—especially after the cliffhanger i gave y’all lol. xoxoxo


	11. What Cannot Be Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> regis learns of adriel's fate. geralt is confronted with the horrors of regis' blood addled past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow do i take long to update....... but, before you read on, an important note/warning: there is a flashback to when regis was at the height of his addiction, so be aware that some scenes will be referencing his journal from tw3, “my last thought before i succumb to sleep.” this means referenced death of children as well as infants. i think i haven’t really capitalized on how reprehensible young!regis’ past actions were… so here we are :/ hence the updated rating from T to M.

“This is the professor and Adriel’s home…” Regis trailed, gaze sweeping across the modest farmhouse surrounded by a dense thicket of trees. A narrow brook ran adjacent to the home, the yellow sand of the bank and flat stones illuminated by the moonlight, painting the water’s surface in a sheen of silver.

Regis took a hesitant step forward. Despite it being well past evening, there were no candles lit, no sound of any living thing other than the low hum of cicadas in the surrounding brush. The porch was in the process of being reclaimed by nature, a plethora of vines and other creeping plants crawling past their trellises to hang over the wooden awning. The estate was dark, quiet, and if the vampire hadn’t known who lived in the home, he’d have assumed it to be abandoned. It seemed completely void of all the dressings and furnishings required for human life—perhaps for almost as long as he’d been in Beauclair.

Worry lodged itself in his throat like a stone as he swallowed, turning back to meet Ezehiel’s gaze.

The other vampire’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “It is. What an astute observation.”

Regis held his tongue, reigning in his ire for the time, reaching instead for the doorknob. He had to duck below the canopy of vines to push open the front door, muttering a curse at the added annoyance—he was already on edge, having gone so long without drinking human blood.

The door squealed loudly in protest at the force he used in his agitated state, but allowed the vampire past the threshold and into the pitch-black foyer all the same. The stench of rot was heavy and all too familiar, whatever hope he had that Adriel was somehow safe withering away in Regis’ heart with every shaky inhale of the cloying scent. His hand twitched at his side, remembering the vial of Adriel's blood in his pocket. 

_Just one sip,_ he thought to himself.  _To cure my nerves. I need to be able to think rationally. I need to be able to rescue Adriel... if he is still alive._ The man shook his head a moment later, unable to keep the image of Geralt, alone in their room, trusting him enough to allow him to leave at night, at bay.  _No. I'm stronger than this. I won't betray Geralt's trust._

Regis walked down the narrow hall, only pausing at the entrance to the kitchen. There was a large stack of dirty dishes on the counter, a brown sheet of mold having colonized the plates and glasses. The circular wooden table had a few pieces of colored parchment, the contents of a box of pastels strewn across the surface. At the sight, a memory rose to the surface—one that felt as distant to him as the home world of vampires: a place, a thing that did not belong to him. Something better left forgotten. 

_“Emiel!” a vampire called, lifting his bloody face from something swaddled in a pink cloth. “There’s another one in the room if you want it!”_

_“Thank you,” Emiel replied, giving a teasingly drawn-out bow. “You know my tastes so well.”_

_"Hurry up,” a different vampire snapped, wiping at his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. Red blossomed against the cream-colored cloth, causing the vampire to grimace. “This is why I prefer bottled blood. Drinking like this is savage.”_

_“Now, now, that’s no way to talk to our fearless leader,” Ezehiel interrupted, clasping Emiel’s shoulder. He gave a wink, dropping a loosely tied pouch into Emiel’s hand. “I found these in the nursery. I know you prefer graphite and charcoal, but a color study could break the monotony, no?”_

_Emiel rolled his eyes, twisting out of Ezehiel’s grasp before slipping the pouch of pastels in his coat pocket. Despite himself, he grinned once he walked past Ezehiel, face turned away. The smile, though warm, showcased his bloodstained teeth. “You’re a sentimental old coot, you know that?”_

_Emiel didn’t wait for a reply; he darted up the stairs as smoke, reappearing at the threshold of the nursery. Stepping over the two lifeless bodies of the parents, Emiel walked up to the wooden basinets, eyes glowing silver in the dark. One was empty and stained with blood. The other, however, was not._

_The lone babe cried a long, shrill wail. Gently, Emiel lifted the baby from its crib, mindful of his sharp nails._

_“Shhh… hush now, little one,” he spoke softly, rocking the child close to his chest. “It’s almost over.”_

_The baby’s cries grew quieter, large brown eyes struggling to stay open. Emiel smiled, tight-lipped, as the baby finally closed its eyes, lulled to sleep in the arms of a monster._

_The vampire stopped to listen to the sounds of the ransacked house. His friends were all downstairs, drunken chatter taking place in the kitchen. He could hear Ezehiel explaining some new experiment he was working on, voice clear and melodic with no obvious signs of intoxication in his speech. And then there was the babe in his arms, little heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, breath fanning sweetly against his cheek._

_A brief feeling of guilt tugged at his conscience, but even guilt could be drowned out by the taste of blood. The velvet taste remained on his tongue long after the babe was dead, allotting him a restful slumber when he returned to his crypt, his thoughts finally quieted._

_For the first time in months, Emiel slept like a dead man._

“I still have them,” Regis admitted, not needing to turn around to know that Ezehiel was standing behind him. “They were absolutely shitty, but I kept the pastels all the same.” _Even though they never belonged to me—or you—in the first place._

As he’d done many times before, Ezehiel clasped his shoulder, his grey eyes softening at the sight of the younger vampire. He could feel how tense Regis was, as if every muscle underneath his skin was coiled, fighting against itself and its wants.

“Regis…” Ezehiel started, struggling to find the proper words. He hadn’t brought Regis here solely to anger him—but some things were difficult to say no matter how long you’ve lived.

For Ezehiel, it was easy enough to talk about his hobbies, his interests, his current experiments. Emotions, on the other hand, were not his strong suit—he didn’t understand them in his own species at times and still couldn’t understand humans at all despite his scientific inquires. How did a species who lived, on average, no more than sixty years, forge such tightknit bonds beyond those of their immediate bloodline? And why did Regis suddenly feel a kinship to humans after spending years gorging on their blood without any apparent remorse?

Ezehiel sighed, gaze turning to the array of pastels. There was a sudden ache in his chest for the past. He dropped his hand from Regis’ shoulder, taking a step back. “Were you ever truly happy back then, leading the group?”

An exasperated chuckle escaped Regis’ lips, shoulders shaking. He did not turn to look at Ezehiel. “You can drop the act, Ezehiel. You never cared about me. You only pretended to care out of some misplaced loyalty to my father.”

Ezehiel frowned. “I admit, I am not the best at showing emotion, but to say I’ve never cared—“

Regis interrupted, his voice as sharp and cutting as an arrow to the chest. “Where were you when I was so drunk I couldn’t find my way back home? Where were you when I couldn’t even sleep without a sip of blood in my system? Where were you when I needed a friend?” It was then that the vampire turned to face Ezehiel, dark eyes narrowed.

Ezehiel clenched his jaw in realization, sharp teeth gouging the inside of his cheek at the accusations. He had been working on a handful of experiments, was keeping the other younger vampires in their little plasma group from accidentally revealing themselves to an entire city, and imbibing just enough to free himself from his own self-critical thoughts. Checking on Regis’ wellbeing never crossed his mind.

When Regis began to pull away from the group, spend more time hunting alone, caring less for the parties and banalities of group drinking, Ezehiel had assumed it was nothing serious. Regis always teetered between the line of introvert and extravert, enjoying the company of his friends just as much as a week shut away with a stack of books. If he were in dire trouble, surely he’d reach out—that made the most logical sense, after all.

But Regis wasn’t a centuries-old higher vampire. For all his wit and intelligence, he was just a youth—a troubled, blood-addicted youth—still trying to find his place in a world that would rather see him torn to pieces. Even worse, Regis was fallible in a way Ezehiel was not; he did not see humans as beneath him, too young to know how futile it was to care for a species that would ultimately betray him in the end. Then he’d fallen into camaraderie with a witcher of all things, his mind filled to the brim with all sorts of poisonous ideas.

Regis needed to break free from his addiction before he ended up like Khagmar, but feeling remorse for killing humans? That was only something another human—or witcher—could instill.

“…You hid it so well,” Ezehiel finally replied, pushing away his more maudlin thoughts for the time being.

“No. You didn’t want to see me spiraling into addiction, so you didn’t,” Regis said, expression as cold as stone. It was a testament to his newfound attempts at emotional control that he didn’t throw Ezehiel through the nearest window as he’d done back at his own estate. Instead, he merely slipped past the older vampire, only pausing when he felt Ezehiel grip his arm.

“Regis, I am sorry. I am sorry for choosing to ignore your struggles. I did not want things to change. It was selfish of me.”

Regis was quiet for a long time. Eventually, he spoke, his tone barely above a whisper. “Where is he? Where is Adriel?”

“…Upstairs.”

Before ascending the creaking staircase, Regis took one last look out the window. He saw a large oak tree, the full moon illuminating the wooden swing hanging from one of its many sprawling branches 

* * *

 

Geralt awoke to the sound of someone banging at his door, a mob of voices calling out for him.

A vague sense of déjà vu hit him the moment his feet touched the floor, this being far from the first time that he’d been rudely awoken in the night. He immediately felt a flare of concern when he realized that Regis had not returned. Since the first time the vampire had slipped out of their room in the night, returning before dawn with the smell of dirt and animal blood upon him, Geralt had placed an unspoken amount of trust in Regis. Trust that the way he was coping with his addiction would not involve harming people. He hoped he hadn't been wrong.

Though it was still dark, the witcher knew it was around three in the morning due to his mutations which gave him the ability to tell what time it was without visual cues like the position of the sun or moon. He was fully awake and cognizant by the time he opened the door, meeting the frantic gaze of around a dozen Beauclair denizens crowding the hallway. Most were obviously families, men and women holding their children tightly to their chests.

“Oh, Master Witcher, it’s terrible! Absolutely terrible!” a woman wailed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a cloth while holding a babe with one arm.

A man with sword at his hip, though clearly not a knight, pushed through the crowd, complexion pale. His teeth chattered as he spoke, as if recounting the tale itself were enough to bring the memory back to life. “I saw a beast fly over the city! A winged, hulking monster covered in blood! It was carrying a child in its claws and flew to the west, probably to its lair to eat its fill uninterrupted. I ran after it, I did…” he paused, shaking his head. A bead of sweat dripped down his brow. “But then I saw another, larger beast—and it damn near dropped a corpse on my head! It was of a man, severed completely in half. It gave me such a scare that I ran back into town.”

A few other denizens shared their own descriptions of the two beasts, two bat-like creatures that were obviously not fleders or garkains given that they were far from mindless. They both left the city, did not seem tempted to attack anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross their paths. No, Geralt knew immediately what kind of beast he was dealing with.

Geralt turned to the quivering man. “Take me to the corpse. I’ll see if I can track them down.”

* * *

 

He followed the man to the edge of the forest, allowing him then to return to the city and to warn as many people as he could to stay indoors. Now alone, Geralt turned his attention to the victim.

The corpse, to Geralt’s surprise, was in an obvious state of rot. A week or two of decay was the witcher’s preliminary estimate, though the lack of blood—which from the grey coloring of the man’s intestines, happened before he was severed in half—made it difficult to pinpoint an exact date.

“Hmm…” the witcher began, stooping as close to the corpse as he dared given the smell of necrosis, “classic bite pattern of a higher vampire—no ripping of flesh aside from the post mortem severing and claw-like wounds near the upper chest and lower abdomen. His body was carried by a powerful set of talons, explaining the crushed remnants of his rib cage. Likely died from exsanguination. No signs of any animals getting to him… he also must have died indoors.”

No longer needing the corpse, and knowing full well that leaving the body in the open would invite all sorts of monsters to dine upon it, Geralt cast Igni. Soon, plumes of smoke rose above the canopy of trees, the smell of burning flesh sending the witcher further westward into the woods.

Focusing his attention on the surrounding area, he swept his gaze across the otherwise quiet forest. Nothing. Even with his heightened senses, he did not hear or see anything else out of place.

With a grumble, Geralt reached into his potions pouch for the vial of Cat, accidentally knocking Adriel’s gift, a small wooden horse, out of the bag in his haste. He smiled briefly at the little trinket. After returning it safely to his pouch, he swallowed the moss-green liquid. In moments, the forest was awash in light, the full moon almost painful to look at in its new brightness.

Geralt walked deeper into the woods, scanning the brush and tree line for anything that might lead him to either beast. As he searched, his thoughts drifted again to Regis.

There was no use in thinking otherwise; one of the beasts had to be Regis. And what was worse? To imagine that he was the monster carrying a child into the night? Or that he had drank the blood of some man, practically tortured him, and then dropped his severed corpse in the woods? Neither option sat well with the witcher—if Regis wanted to renounce his attempts at battling his addiction, to enjoy another raucous night drinking from innocent villagers, why didn’t he start with Geralt?

He’d made it abundantly clear that he was fighting against the impulse to attack him. Did he really care so much for a witcher that he’d spare him out of loyalty? A sense of camaraderie? Or perhaps even genuine friendship? Whatever their relationship was now that neither man wanted to kill the other, it had been enough to keep Regis from attacking Geralt—but just because Geralt was safe, did that mean he could ignore all the evil Regis had done in the past? Or even the evil that the vampire was no doubt currently doing?

"I’m too tired for this shit,” Geralt muttered to himself, wishing he were back in bed at the inn and not tracking either Regis or a hostile vampire ready to sink its fangs into his throat.

The potion of Cat was waning and still nothing—no sign of either higher vampire. Shaking his head, Geralt stopped to lean against a tree and closed his eyes, lips parting in a long, weary sigh. Though it varied from person to person, Geralt was one of few witchers to have adverse side effects to Cat. It almost always made him dizzy as it wore off, his vision shifting between too bright and too dark, one moment blinded by light and in the next, having to squint to make out the shadows of trees at the edge of his sight. He even felt a searing pain at the base of his brain stem, nerves alight with misfired pain signals.

Given his distracted state, It was only thanks to his prolonged travels with Regis, in knowing what it felt like to have a higher vampire approach him, that Geralt felt the subtle drop in temperature, the hairs at the back of his neck rising, that he opened his eyes and saw the gold-tinged whorls of smoke trailing towards him.

In the milliseconds before he could reach for his sword, a brown-haired man with grey eyes was before him, expression severe. Geralt felt a cold flash of fear trickle down his spine, the phantom but familiar pain of fangs tearing into flesh rearing in his mind involuntarily. It made him then grip the hilt of his sword tighter as he backed away, lips pulled into an ugly sneer.

Surprisingly, the vampire did not attack. He chose instead to jab a finger at the witcher accusingly, fangs bared. “You, _witcher_ , need to stop meddling in affairs that do not concern you.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t trying to meddle in anything. You,” the witcher paused, realizing he never actually bothered to learn the vampire’s name, “were the one who attacked me.”

Ezehiel ignored the remark. “You were in Regis’ home—a witcher! A sad, mutated excuse for a human being. And you weren’t dead. I should have realized what was going on sooner given that Regis’ tastes have always been… unusual.”

“First off, the name’s Geralt of Rivia, not witcher or sad, mutated excuse for a human being. Second, what exactly are you implying?”

The vampire folded his arms, a curious look replacing his once angry countenance. He cocked his head to the side, staring at the witcher as if he were a child that needed to be placated. “Geralt, is it? Very well, I suppose an introduction is necessary. I am Ezehiel Hildegrard, scientist and researcher. Now that such trivialities are out of the way… tell me how you managed to _seduce_ Regis.”

Geralt blinked, momentarily frozen in surprise. It was then that the potion of Cat dissipated in full, pulling a curse from his throat as he swayed on his feet, the final, but worst wave of pain slowly ebbing away. Looking back up at the vampire, he noticed with some uneasiness that Ezehiel was watching his face intently—as if the answer to such an absurd question could be found simply by studying his expression.

“Well, I guess you’re rather pretty for a witcher. The white hair is… unique. And Regis does love the unusual.”

“So you think I’m pretty?” Geralt asked, unable to stop himself. He’d gotten too damn comfortable teasing Regis. Ezehiel, on the other hand, did not seem like the type to take kindly to anyone poking fun at him.

Ezehiel’s frown deepened as he ran a hand through his hair, a few silver strands escaping his low ponytail. He wrinkled his nose as if the thought itself were offensive. “Definitely not my type. You’re much too young—and not a vampire. But Regis has never been picky about species.”

“Ah, so I have a chance after all,” Geralt replied, completely deadpan. He meant for his reply to be a joke, but in truth, there was a small part of himself that was actually pleased by Ezehiel’s words.

Not the time… he mentally chastised himself, returning his attention to Ezehiel. “So, I’m gonna assume you came here to do more than ask me invasive questions.”

The vampire nodded, silver eyes taking on a dangerous glint. “Yes. I’m here to give you some advice.”

Geralt raised a brow, fingers tightening once again around his silver sword. “I don’t think I like where this is going.”

“You need to stop filling Regis’ mind with—“ he stopped himself suddenly, head tilting curiously to the sky as if listening to someone’s voice. Ezehiel muttered something in the vampiric tongue, which Geralt guessed to be a curse, before he returned his attention to the witcher, worry marring his features. “Never mind my threats, you need to go to Regis now.”

“Where is he? Is he hurt?”

“No. But he is on the verge of doing something he’ll regret for centuries. I would fly to him… but I’ve made enough mistakes for one night.” In a blur of movement, the vampire had a tight hold on Geralt’s sword hand, the other digging into his opposite shoulder.

Before he could even react to Ezehiel’s crushing grip, a series of images played through his mind as if they were Geralt’s own memories. He saw a path of felled trees leading to a small clearing where a large, red-eyed bat stood over Adriel, the child’s face obscured by one of beast’s leathery wings.

Ezehiel pulled away. “Do you understand, witcher?”

Geralt immediately sheathed his sword, giving the vampire a curt nod. “I’ll stop him.”

And then Ezehiel disappeared, gold-and-black smoke drifting in the direction of Beauclair.

Using the images Ezehiel gave him, Geralt was able to find the clearing with ease. He slowed to a jog as he approached, raising his hands in peace.

At the sight and smell of him, the large bat made a sharp chittering noise, rising to stand in front of the child. He gave another cry, this time one that was so high-pitched that Geralt winced, reflexively covering his ears.

_Right. Just like bruxae, their voices can be dangerous._

“Hey, it’s alright, Regis. I’m not gonna hurt him… or you. Can I come closer?”

The witcher took a step forward, gauging Regis’ face. His red eyes held obvious recognition, Geralt was sure of it—otherwise he’d have already been skewered by his claws or torn apart by his sharp teeth. Regis cocked his head, a low whine escaping his throat, before he dipped his head down, snub nose pressed to Adriel’s cheek. He chittered again, wings rubbing together in what Geralt assumed to be anxiety, as he began to groom Adriel, tongue gently smoothing out a few errant curls from the crown of his head. From his angle, Geralt still couldn’t see Adriel’s face fully.

_Grooming behavior… that would be something bats do for their pups,_  Geralt thought to himself. _And Adriel doesn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. So why did Ezehiel want me to come here so quickly?_

“Should’ve known you’d be chatty in this form too,” Geralt said more to himself than Regis, striding forward.

At his words, Regis’ throat rumbled, something that reminded Geralt of a chuckle. Regis was much more aware of himself and his surroundings than the witcher expected him to be—but it wasn’t like the vampire had ever been mindless. Even in the throes of bloodlust—due to drunkenness, injury, or rage—he was still aware of his actions and their inevitable consequences, save for the brief moment when he’d been incapacitated by Akoni and thrown into a cage with the witcher.

Geralt hesitantly lifted a hand to Regis’ face, noting with worry that the sharp central incisors at the front of his mouth were stained red. At the motion, Regis scented the air, nostrils flaring. His eyes narrowed briefly but he knocked his nose against Geralt’s hand all the same. At the touch, a series of images flittered across the witcher’s gaze like a haze of smoke—confusing, disjointed, and gone all too soon.

_A nursery with a bloodstained basinet. An infant with deep brown eyes held by familiar hands. The same infant, now dead. Then, a shift—Adriel, curly dark hair and brown eyes, smiling into Regis’ embrace. Regis opening a door to what looked like Adriel sleeping, if it weren’t for the deep set of bite marks on his right wrist. His chest was rising and falling, but he would not wake. Then, Regis, in anger, claws and teeth extended, charging at Ezehiel. Ezehiel allowing the other vampire to strike at him, to bite into the flesh of his arm, not putting up any attempt at fighting off his attacker. The black-haired man transforming into his more bestial form, carefully picking Adriel up from the floor and carrying him through the large window of a farmhouse._

When the vision was over, Geralt’s eyes found a new scene before him. Regis had bowed his head, soft and impossibly sad cry escaping his throat as he nudged at Adriel’s shoulder. The child did not move.

Geralt, unable to put his thoughts into words, chose to put them to action. He reached for his silver sword with a grimace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for clarification, ezehiel is old af. he was basically supposed to be the 'designated driver' for regis' plasma crowd, but instead he ends up taking shots & getting wasted too bc what else are u gonna do when ur thousands of years old ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> second, i'm mixing sapkowski & cdpr lore as per usual; i just think being able to communicate thru images/memories is neat™ & sure, it goes directly against the resonance potion plot in tw3 but,,,, idk, how else are higher & lower vampires communicating if it isn't thru either a) images or b) telepathy?? 
> 
> finally, thank u all for waiting so long ;v; unfortunately we've come to more angst, but as they say... it has to get worse before it gets better. i really do appreciate all the comments & kudos in the meantime; i didn't mean to be gone for 7+ months, but life sure has a way of getting in the way of things lol. i make no promises abt next chapter other than that it is coming, i swear ^^;


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